


Starsurge - Domesticity

by hoxadrine



Series: The Twilight War [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Can't write full porn with two dorks like these, F/M, Fetishes and kinks, Fluff and Smut, Not everything is porn though, Sexual Content, Smut, Some twisted and fluffy feelings in between, alphabet fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9164029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoxadrine/pseuds/hoxadrine
Summary: A collection of one-shots and random scenes about Illidan and Mylenne’s time together, set at different times throughout their relationship – yet all duringStarsurge– in alphabetical order.





	1. Ablutophilia

**Author's Note:**

> This piece came into life thanks to a challenge from the All Fandoms Fanfiction and Original Fiction Writers Group, "An ABCs of smut!" or simply 26 days of the alphabet of smut. Some letters might not even be sexual or smutty at all, but well, here's trying anyway...  
> And so it begins!  
>  
> 
>  **Ablutophilia** : Fetish for baths or showers that usually centers around a naked person lathering themselves up.
> 
> **A-N: TW for dub-con voyeurism.**

** Darnassian: **

**Arane:** A curse or expletive. Figurative translation for “nightmare/s”.

 **Jai’sural:** “The betrothed’s pledge”. A jai’sural is a golden metallic necklace, worn by a betrothed female and bound onto the female’s neck with magic. Once set, a silver-white precious stone in the form of a tear is shown in the middle of the necklace, representing the favor of Elune. It can be only taken out after marriage.

* * *

** Illidan **

That night, he wakes up with a wonderful sense of relief; he hadn’t been into the Azure Dream for more than two weeks and, Goddess, he knows how much he needed that rest. Being able to relax his muscles and fall into a dreamless sleep is one of the few positive things happening to him currently.

Probably the _only_ positive thing happening to him, given what he has been going through the last two months.

Sitting on one side of the bed, Illidan takes a few deep breaths and massages the back of his neck, stretching his back and ensuring his muscles to respond. He rubs his eyes before resting his elbows on his knees, savoring what’s left of the aftermath of his last relaxed sleep before starting the night.

As if by cue, his mind drifts into the sudden event that had, as if by accident, triggered and locked the fate of a couple of his closest acquaintances—Hargo’s death. A heavy sigh escapes him, reminiscing what had happened after that shocking incident. Silgryn had to escape from Suramar, Arluin had disappeared from sight once more, and Mylenne… _oh, Goddess, Mylie_.

The woman hadn’t only been left to cope with her uncle’s quick departure and to mourn the passing of her lover, but—above them all—she had been engaged with Jarod _arane_ Shadowsong, forced to wear that insulting _jai’sural_ everywhere she went.  

Illidan stands up abruptly, running a hand through the back of his neck before obliging to his sudden want of breaking something, or accidentally waking his friend from her much-needed sleep. However, is when he turns to glance at his bed that he notices Mylenne’s usual spot to be empty—only her silver ribbon rests over the mattress, giving away her earlier presence there.

Somehow knowing she have been there, sleeping beside him for the last two weeks, gives him a huge sense of comfort and uneasiness altogether. For he’s aware of how much Mylenne currently needs him, how much she looks for him to find some peace and some sort of escape from the whole turmoil that reigns her life—peace and escape he had willingly offered to her, anyway—how much she unconsciously depends on him to keep her sanity in check. He’s the only trusted friend she had left, and Illidan knows too much of what solitude and isolation can do for someone, particularly for such an emotionally fragile woman as her.

But what Illidan hadn’t been aware of, is how much he had been starting to _depend_ on her as well. Even his nightmares had—apparently—stopped once she had started to come regularly by his place, sleeping beside him and hugging him tightly to keep herself from breaking into violent sobs once more.

As he walks down the stairs and heads for his small kitchen, he gets conscious that he still doesn’t know what to do with his feelings for her—he hasn’t known for years by now. At first, it had been her relationship with Hargo what stopped him from courting her, and then her deep need for a real friend in her life; someone in which she could confide, somebody to ground her more emotionally rather than physically—a friendly shoulder to lean and cry on.

And he had been too willing to take the role of a friend, believing that if making himself useful for her, then his strong attraction for her would come to pass. But now, after having her sleeping in his arms for two weeks? Now, after slowly growing accustomed to the warmth of her body next to his, or her unique and so feminine scent of lilies soothing his darkest thoughts?

Now he’s starting to have doubts… again.

And there it goes, the very main reason of why Illidan despises being attached in any way to someone: The doubt of himself, of his real purposes behind his actions, of what he really wants.

On his way to the kitchen, he stops after finding his leather boots, leaning over the arm couch before the fireplace and lacing them tightly under the folds of his working breeches. “Had some breakfast already? Hopefully, you left some moonberry jam for me,” He says, his voice coming a little rough given the early hour. “… Mylie?”

Walking around, he’s only greeted with the leftovers of her breakfast, but she’s nowhere to be seen, leaving him as the only kaldorei inside the house. A strong sense of unease assaults him, like a heavy stone settling inside his chest—had she left without telling him? Had he done something wrong?

Fortunately, his imminent panicking subsides when he nudges a pair of leather sandals with the tip of his boot, abandoned close to the door leading to his backyard. So, she’s at the cave then, or maybe she just decided to get on her weapon training a little earlier than usual. Whatever she’s doing, she’s still around, and that’s enough for him to relax again.

After deciding to join her in the backyard—and because he can’t help with the opportunity to show off his good magic skills to her—he returns to the kitchen and prepares a quick breakfast for him before heading outside. He swallows a glass of water and smears what’s left of the moonberry jam onto a slice of bread, eating it on his way to the door.

But then, after taking a glance through the window next to the door in an act of reflex, Illidan is left choking on his food, a hand running to punch his chest and eyes blowing wide at the sight displayed before him.

For she’s not actually training with her glaives nor at the cave—in fact, and to his surprise, Mylenne is right there, at the small pool conveniently placed behind his house.

… Wearing only her smallclothes… _bathing._

His hand comes to rest over the door, but he’s unaware of his nails barely scratching the wooden surface, unable to tear his gaze away from the window. He swallows hard, his heart starting to pump blood into him with a little more eagerness than usual, seeing as how Mylenne lolls her head backwards to let the small waterfall wash and clean her impossibly long violet hair.

His breath hitches when she stretches her back, allowing him a sideways display of her full breasts—her underclothes already wet, sticking in her lavender skin and leaving nothing to the imagination. He’s about to jump when she faces him, but her eyes are closed as she washes her face, rubbing and cleaning away the soap falling down her forehead.

Her lilac lips move with her ministrations—as if she’s idly humming a song—then a small smirk crosses her lips before turning around, leaving him with the sight of her bare back. His heart goes racing, something close to adrenaline kicking in.

Has she just noticed he’s watching her?

But she just keeps going, making no move to hide or sending a single signal to him to let him know she’s aware. So he stays, awfully conscious that he shouldn’t be watching her bathe and almost hating himself for the hardness slowly growing between his legs, but his feet are rooted in their place and he can’t look away, no matter how much he tries to.

He knows he shouldn’t be watching her—one of his _closest friends,_ of all people—he _definitely shouldn’t_ be keeping a groan from escaping his lips when she bends over to wash her feet, or breathe heavily at the sight of the water running down her back, her smallclothes soaking wet, her skin gleaming after she lathers up then gets clean, remnants of soap dripping down her toned legs…

Illidan starts to hate himself and his horrible demeanor, already feeling like an awful voyeur. And he had done this before—watching people bathe, that is, like Syrana when they were lovers and she occasionally used his small pool to wash herself—but watching her, _Mylenne_ … that’s a completely different experience.

But it only takes a stretch of her legs for his golden pupils to blow wide and for his brain to forget even his own name.

Deep, hot desire overtakes the rational part of his conscience, and he’s left watching hungrily as she rubs some scented oil over her skin, following the route of her oiled fingers and imagining his own hands running along the expanse of her body. First, smoothing the oil over her shoulders, then the column of her neck, traveling down to the soft skin between her breasts, reaching her lower ribs and small waist, fingers going down, down, _down_ …

This time he can’t ignore the tightness of his breeches, almost ripping off the laces in his best effort to find some relief. His free hand travels to idly stroke his length—as if having a life of its own—and his other is still scratching the wooden door, but he notices neither of them as he keeps looking through the window, panting, getting harder and harder within each second passing.

Running a hand through her hair, she then returns to the cascade to wash the excess of the oil, stretching her back once more, prompting a deep groan from him when glancing at the _glistening_ of her skin, both provoked by the oil and the soft moonlight washing over her.

Illidan gets aware of his self-stroking, his breath hitching when a pale lilac hand reaches between her legs. He can’t really see what she’s doing from his position, so he only can guess—is she stroking herself as well?

His length twitches as if demanding more attention, “Oh, _dear Goddess…”_ He whispers, hot breath fogging one corner of the glass as he leans his head on the window, gripping himself harder, stroking a little more thoroughly. 

However, that only leaves him pondering again: Is she really aware of him watching her through the window? She must have, at least in some small rate. After all these years sharing each other’s company, she must have some awareness of what she provokes on him.

... Of how infuriatingly alluring, how tempting, how incredibly gorgeous she is for him.

And maybe she is aware, and she secretly likes to be seen washing herself clean. Or perhaps, only perhaps, she actually enjoys teasing him— _torturing him_ , that is—taking pleasure in showing him what he will never touch.

With a heavy moan coming from the back of his throat, his resolve is set. No matter, then, for if he can’t have her—even when the odds are currently in his favor—then he’ll have whatever he can get from her. Or maybe he might dare for once and start courting her, so to see if she actually returns any interest, however small or nonexistent that could turn out to be.

But then, after she bends her neck a couple of inches, the silver-white light from the Moon reflects on her _jai’sural_ , blinding him with its shimmering for a mere moment before making him flinch away from the window, suddenly coming to realization.

Besides always being an irony for him, the light of the Goddess always brings him to the same conclusions. And Elune is right, after all; painfully, bitterly, unfortunately right—for Mylenne is engaged to another man, promised to marry and spend the rest of her life with someone that’s _not him_.

A deep sense of guilt washes over him, like a bucket of ice cold water being thrown at his face. No matter if the odds might seem turned to his favor because, one way or another, he’ll never have his chance with her.

Even if she finds a way to not get married to one of her best friends—whatever small the chance may be for it—then she’ll probably lay her eyes on another man, and so forth until she ultimately finds her lifemate, surely a charming noble from the same caste as her that will be blessed with becoming the latest member of House Stareye.

He will never have her as anything but his friend.

A disgusted snort escapes his lips as he readjusts the ties of his breeches, gathering the necessary strength to tear his gaze away from the window and return to the fireplace of his small house, a safer spot for him to start growling and brooding. As well as he knows for Mylenne to be his friend and _only_ —surely forever— _his friend_ , he can’t help with the growing need of punching something when the reality of it all snaps at him in the way it just did.

And he hates himself at times like these; hates his doubts, his feelings, and his painful longing for a woman he can’t have, take nor claim as his.

But what he despises more of it all is his utter _need_ to kick open the door, rush across the backyard and just bend her over, burying himself into her afterwards with one swift movement of his hips—engagement, friendship, teasing and Goddess be damned.

So he writes a quick note to her, hands slightly trembling, and heads to his secret cave, only to scream away his frustration without prying ears.

And maybe, to forcefully finish what she already had started.


	2. Body Worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B for Body Worship... and Birth(night)... and Blowjob.   
> Yeah, it's kind of a lot of B's. _Oh, Bees!_  
>  Alright, I'll just stop now.

 

** Darnassian: **

**Surfas** : Endearment for “Dear” or just “Love”.

**Kal-tora(i):** Literal: “Birthnight”. Term for birthday (Trivia: Kaldorei celebrate birthdays every 100 years) Plural: Kal-torai.

**Dalah’surfal:** Endearment, “My beloved.”

* * *

** Mylenne **

“And you think we should go together because— _ow_! Hey!”

He cranes his neck to the side, earning a smack from her on one of his pointy ears. “Just don’t move, _surfas_!” Mylenne scolds him, small pins hanging from her mouth as she tries to secure an elegant bun on the top of his cobalt head. “It’s not that much of a fuss, really…”

Grumbling under his breath, he finally stays still, allowing her to finish her job. “Fine, if you insist,” Illidan sighs as he refastens his wristbands, “I just want to know if you’ll be alright with going there. You’ll not hear me complaining if we just stay home, _love_ …”

An endearing chuckle follows the woman as she walks to stand before him, arms crossed under her chest and pretty much aware of what he’s trying to do. “Keep that silky tone for later, Lid,” She warns him, a brow arching to make her point. “Besides, it will be fun! Admit it, you’re doing all this fuss because you just don’t want to see my uncle,”

A tired sigh escapes him, two gloved fingertips running to massage the bridge of his nose, “Ugh, if I get one more comment from Silgryn, I swear _—_ ”

She playfully pats his hand away, “You swear what, exactly?” She wonders, giving her mate a knowing look, “Silgryn just takes huge pleasure in _teasing_ you. And honestly, that is your fault, not his.”

“He likes to piss me off and suddenly, it’s my fault. Bah!” He snarls, giving her a deep frown as he imitates her stance, muscled arms crossing and golden eyes looking away as if offended. “And I do not _sulk_ …” He then muses, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself.

* * *

“And there’s the _sulkiest_ man in Suramar!” Her uncle exclaims from the other side of the bar, joining them at the round table with a wide smile plastered over his face. “And with the prettiest girl in the city, no less! Double the trouble!” He jests, taking a seat beside her mate and running a hand through his shoulders—the gesture probably too teasing for Illidan’s liking, given the way he rolls his eyes at Silgryn.

She pretends to not notice his growing discomfort, beaming happily at the males besides her. “Perfect timing as always, Sil. You just arrived for the celebration,” Mylenne smiles, signaling the other women to come over with a wave of her hand.

Her uncle’s mischievous smirk widens when Illidan turns to stare at her, brows furrowing in confusion. “’Celebration’? What did I miss?” He wonders, searching her face for answers.

He suddenly seems to realize that he’s quite trapped between the relatives, unconsciously starting to fidget in his spot, doing his best attempt to extricate himself from Silgryn’s heavy arm over his shoulders. “Mylie—?” Illidan muses, a small tint of unease in his baritone voice.

Her mate startles when Vanthir’s waitresses arrive at their table, one of the ladies—Verene—carrying a big moonberry cake with both hands, small sweets in different shades of gold adorning the top.

Spellcasters, sorcerers and many acquaintances alike make their appearances from their hidden spots, quickly joining the crowded table. From Lothrius, Syrana and Shalasyr striding beside her uncle, to Thania, Tyrande, and even Malfurion coming to stand next to Mylenne.

The whole group beams at Illidan, almost as if they’re expecting him to say something. “Uhm… what is going on?” He mumbles as he looks to all the smiling faces before him, his voice seemingly weak—as if he can’t decide to feel very uncomfortable or very pleased with all the attention.

And Mylenne can’t find him looking more _adorable_ than in that moment, right when after her cue, half the bar roars in the same chant.

“ _Happy_ Kal-tora _, Illidan!_ ”

This time he actually jumps in surprise, something close to a squeal quickly dying on his lips as his friends nearly pounce on him, hands and arms coming from everywhere and burying him deeper in his seat as they try to hug him from all sides.

Silgryn bursts in laughter as he moves to the side, quickly leaning back when an overexcited Syrana practically throws herself over his lap to reach her friend. “ _Ow—!_ Not the hair!” Illidan yelps from under the mass of people, his upper body barely visible from Mylenne’s spot.

After all his friends got to grab a piece of him, she finally takes mercy of his apparent suffering, throwing her arms over the back of his neck—ever careful of messing with his hair—disentangling him from the mountain of embraces. Illidan doesn’t hesitate for a second and encircles her waist, quickly pulling her onto his lap and filling his arms with her before anyone regrets it. 

From that position, she’s able to see the sheer relief gleaming on his golden gaze before she buries her face in the crook of his neck. “You should have seen your face, it was priceless!” Mylenne giggles close to his earlobe, contagious from the happy chattering around them.

The moonberry cake finds its safe spot in the middle of the table and she moves to rest her head on his shoulder, allowing him to lean forward and blow off a set of cobalt candles. He bites his lower lip afterwards, attempting to hide his small amusement when the crowd explodes in a round of applause, shaking his head as if resigned.

“You _lied_ to me, you devious woman,” Illidan points out to her when their friends get on their own business, some of them eager to grab a piece of cake, some others striding to the dance floor. “You’re aware that you’ll pay for this, right?” He continues, squirming a little when she playfully nibbles his ear, earning a squeeze on her thigh.

She only brushes his temple with a brow, shoving his cheek with pepper kisses as she leans further into him, “Don’t worry about it, _dalah’surfal_. I fully intend to do just that…” She whispers very close to his mouth, yet pulling back when he tries to capture her lips with his, a smirk full of hidden purposes clinging to her face.

He growls back in response, his intense gaze never leaving Mylenne’s face when she feeds him with a small piece of cake. After making sure nobody’s looking, her mate deftly captures her index finger in his mouth, a teasing tongue striding out to lick it clean in a very arousing manner, earning a small intake of breath from her.

“Well, now I can’t wait to see what you come up with,” It’s the only thing Illidan says before pulling her off his lap, seemingly decided to get the better of the celebration as he grabs her hand, bringing them both to the dance floor.

His hands find their usual spot over her hips, hers traveling to rest on his shoulders as they sway lazily with the cheerful music. “Knowing you, two thousand and five hundred kisses won’t be enough to compensate,” She jokes, brushing her nose against his.

“Mmh, now that you say it like that, I think I can find a liking to these _kal-torai_ …”

* * *

If Mylenne had learned anything about Illidan after more than a century, is that he’s not fond of surprises, and seriously dislikes not having the complete control of a situation. That’s why the woman starts chuckling after they find their way into Illidan’s home.

Because—and unfortunately for him—she has just decided to not let him have his wicked way with her that night.

That night, she wants to _worship him_.

“What’s so funny, _surfas_?” He brushes her lips with his, holding her flush against him as he slams the front door shut with a kick of his boot. Kissing her hungrily, he works blindly in removing his leather vest, making her walk backwards and on their way to the fireplace.

She breaks the kiss all in a sudden, a wicked smile taking form in her lips when her mate growls in protest, throwing his clothes aside and leaning closer to her, all but demanding her mouth once more.

“Just… humor me,” Mylenne only answers, taking advantage of his small confusion and pushing him with both hands, throwing him not so smoothly over the big and cozy couch—conveniently placed in front of the fireplace.

He grunts with the brusque landing before holding himself with his elbows, head tilting to the side and a cobalt eyebrow rising in interest. Before letting him say anything back, she lifts the hems of her dress and straddles him with practiced ease.

Illidan relaxes after that but, when his hands travel to grab her hips, the smug smirk gets brushed off his face as she captures his wrists, pushing them under her knees and trapping them there.

He attempts to return his hands to their previous planned spot, only for Mylenne forcefully keeping them in place with her limbs. “Mylie…” He growls, his tone nearly menacing, golden eyes narrowing in annoyance—the usual glare he uses when he doesn’t get what he wants.

“Not tonight, my love,” She declares, leaning down and deftly undoing his neat bun, allowing his cobalt mane to run free behind his pointy ears. “Tonight is about you. Do you trust me?”

He half grumbles and half purrs, seemingly fighting to keep his eyes open when Mylenne gets on stroking the top of his head, sharp nails softly scratching the surface. Eventually, he decides for the latter, purring like the cutest of sabers—and for her delight—reluctantly acquiescing to her request.

“With everything…” Illidan sighs, golden eyes drifting shut with her ministrations, lips barely opening as his head lolls back, burying further into the cushions.

She can’t help but sigh deeply next to him, watching in awe as for how he relaxes completely under her touch. Even when he first hesitates, the whole sight of the man before her—features softening, eyes closed, the tiniest of smiles clinging to his hard lips—can only bring tears to her eyes, unwilling to look away from the perfect picture of his undeniable trust in her.

As if she couldn’t be more helplessly in love with him already—and yet, Illidan keeps surprising her every single night.

Unable to keep still for much longer, Mylenne submits to the sweet fluttering of her heart and captures his face in her hands, kissing him deeply, fully, doing her very best to place her full adoration for him with that kiss.

“I’m afraid two thousand and five hundred kisses won’t be enough to show you how much I love you, Illidan…” She breathes into his mouth, his name sounding like a prayer before returning to claim his smiling lips with hers. “No, not in the slightest…” She affirms after another pulling out for breath, although still not having enough of him.

His eyes drift open, only two thin golden lines behind dark lashes, yet that’s enough for her to see the pure _devotion_ gleaming in his gaze. “Don’t let me keep you from trying, _surfas_ ,” Illidan says back, his voice barely a whisper and so very still below her—as if having all the time in the world to just look at each other.

And then, somewhere along the way he looks at her and _submits_ to her, she comes down with two conclusions. The first—and the one that makes her heart swell—is that, knowing him, he’d probably ever acquiesced to another kaldorei in the way he’s just doing in that moment; ultimately giving her the soundest proof of his love and adoration for her.

The second—and slightly more important, given the present circumstances—is how surprisingly _arousing_ it is to have him under her full control.

She swallows heavily, already starting to feel that little spark traveling down her body, slowly—delightfully—heating up her core as they keep staring at each other. One corner of Illidan’s mouth quirks up in a knowing smirk and, for a mere moment, it looks like their roles have been oddly reversed.

When she claims his lips once more and the tiniest of sighs escapes his mouth, Mylenne knows that’s the cue for her undoing, pupils blowing wide with sheer desire.

She quickly gets on her new task of kissing and nipping all the places she can reach, first starting with his neck, one of her hands grabbing a handful of his hair to keep him still. From her periphery, she notices his eyes drifting shut, her name coming out of his lips in a soft breath when she reaches that particular spot on the crook of his neck, right below his ear.

She feels her own heartbeat encompassing his heavy breathing as she brings her lips down his body, leaving a trail of wet kisses along her way to his wide chest, his back arching as if desperately looking for more contact. She complies, but only a little, dragging her nails across his stomach and taking route to his waist, giving it a rough squeeze.

“Mylie…” He moans, almost begging her, his hips rocking upwards and eliciting a smug smile from her when she feels the hard bulge in his trousers.

Her fingers teasingly brush along the hem of his offending piece of clothing, yet she keeps her attention on his torso, the tip of her tongue trailing over one nipple, sending him groaning and purring altogether.

“Oh, I can be all day with only hearing you just _purr_ like that,” Mylenne confesses, fixing her eyes on him intently as she teases his other nipple with her full tongue. He tries to clamp his mouth shut as if getting conscious of his own noises, but it takes a flick of her tongue for another groan to shamelessly escape him.

After some more minutes busying with trailing her nails and tongue over his chest, he’s soon left breathing heavily. “You’re such a tease, sometimes,” Illidan pants above her, seemingly making huge efforts to keep his eyes open. “You can’t keep doing that unless— _oh, Mylie…_ ”

Knowing she can’t keep his hands trapped for much longer—as well as _aching_ to travel further down his body—she captures his wrists, pinning him with her silver gaze only. “Stay still until I say otherwise,” After placing his hands over the leather armrest, conveniently behind his head, she then leans into his panting face. “I’m serious, love. A wrong move from you… and I’ll stop.”

This time he acquiesces quickly, looking too worked up to even fight her, sighing deeply into her mouth when she rewards him with a heated kiss. The leather creaks under Illidan’s tight grip after she abandons his hot mouth, her fingers deftly undoing the laces of his trousers, another groan escaping his lips when she frees him from the confines of his clothes.

After trusting him to keep still she finally travels down, leaving a trail of wet kisses along every expanse of skin she unfolds, focusing in undressing him with fingers, eyes and mouth alike. His boots come out easily, and she dares to take a small moment with just watching at his completely naked form.

With his labored breathing, his head buried over the cushions, limbs slightly trembling with the effort to stay still, Mylenne’s heart swells once more in pure adoration—for he’s the most stunning creature she ever laid her eyes upon.

And that complete obedience, that impressive way of his to fully submit to her without much protest, she’s not sure if her suddenly dry lips come from her growing arousal or the sheer breathtaking sight of him. All that Mylenne knows in that moment is that she can’t love him any more fiercely than in that moment.

And he’s utter, completely hers. Illidan Stormrage, the man she’d been pining for more than she’d admit to anyone… and _he is hers._

With an aching heat spreading through her core, she then wraps her hand around Illidan’s shaft, making sure he feels every single finger slowly brushing him as she leans down and closer. A strangled gasp escapes him, forcing his eyes open when she squeezes him gently—yet firm enough to get his undivided attention.

After his golden gaze locks with hers, she gets him moaning in a higher pitch than usual when her lips close around the head of his length. “Oh, sweet, _dear Goddess…_ ” Illidan breathes, hips jerking in pure reflex.

Placing a hand on one of his hips to keep him still, she uses the other to pump him from bottom to tip ever so slowly, enjoying every single second of it as well as him, delighting in every deep moan she coaxes out of him. The armrest creaks in protest when Illidan’s sharp nails sink into the leather, sounding threateningly close to being ripped off with the force of his grip as Mylenne’s tongue peaks out and curls around his shaft, tasting him fully.

Already feeling a slick wetness between her thighs, she takes a deep breath before plunging all that she can from him into the warmth of her mouth, her eyes drifting close, savoring his heat as well as his unabashed sighs of pleasure.

She easily sets up a pace, his heavy breathing matching the bobbing of her head as she works him up and down, from top to the farthest she can reach with that big shaft of his and that small mouth of hers.

His limbs start trembling when she gets on sucking him, pumping and stroking a little more thoroughly, soon sending him to chant her name repeatedly like a prayer, his voice going louder and louder. “ _Dalah’surfal…_ Oh, Mylie, my beautiful Mylie— _oh!_ ”

His legs and hips jerk sharply and she knows he’s dangerously close; some pain slightly tingled in his voice within the next moan he gives. “Mylie, _please_ …” He croaks, banging his head on the armrest as if trying to keep whatever’s left of his self-control—and probably of his sanity as well.

Taking him as deeper as she can one last time, she then takes mercy of him, letting him go completely and lifting her head to glance at his flushing face. The pleading over his golden gaze is enough of a message to her, crawling up to meet him with her hands and knees, leaning down to capture his waiting lips in hers.

The gesture earns a choked moan from both of them; for Illidan, when he tastes himself in her mouth and for her when his tongue delves deeper into her—the only part of him able to fight for some dominance. Her hands stroke his neck and face before traveling further up, disentangling his fingers from their tight grip on the armrest.

She loves that he doesn’t even seem to think of asking for permission to move, only waiting—as patiently as he can, surprisingly so for a man as Illidan—for her cue, taking full enjoyment of only what she allows him to. And she knows she can never grow tired of seeing him like that, with his whole body… every part of his being _aching_ for her touch.

But, at that point, she’s growing just as desperate as him.

Resting her forehead on his for a moment, she lets go of his trembling hands, a grateful smile clinging to her lips. “You can move, _surfas_ ,” She then declares.

“Oh, _thank the Goddess…!_ ” Illidan cries in deep relief—nearly with a _sob_ , if she didn’t know him better—a newfound energy getting onto him as his hands travel to stroke all the places he can reach, pulling her flush against him.

His mouth claims hers in a seeming act of sheer desperation, one of his hands deftly undoing her elegant ponytail as the other grabs the hem of her dress, pulling it further up to her waist.

He breaks the kiss a little abruptly, golden pupils blowing wide in evident lust, glancing at the offensive piece of clothing she’s still wearing. “Take that off before I just rip it,” He growls in warning.

But when she only shrugs in response—genuinely not caring about that cheap dress—she’s left yelping in surprise when Illidan brings them both to a seated position. With a wicked smile clinging to his lips, he seemingly delights in the noise of fabric being shred to pieces, first leaving her back bare, then pulling the remains off her shoulders and dropping the remains aside to deal with later.

When their eyes meet once more, bare chests brushing together with their heavy panting, Mylenne knows that every single inch of control she once had over him is now gone, vanished into oblivion after her cue.

Now _she_ is utter, completely _his._

A thin veil of purplish-blue covers the bright golden of his eyes, the smell of magic heavy and washing over them as he slips a hand on the back of her neck, two fingers from his other traveling down and between her breasts—leaving a trail of all-consuming fire on its way down the expanse of her body.

Settling herself into a better position, Illidan then coaxes the air out of her lungs with another intense kiss, tongues curling around the other in its fight for domination. He swallows a strangled moan coming from her like a thirsty man when he rips off her undergarments, the fabric brushing over her already slick folds as he pulls it off, exposing the entirety of her skin in all its glory.

He kisses, nips and bites her until her lips get bruised and swollen, a dark tongue peeking out to brush the sore spots before starting all over again. Quite soon she becomes a squirming mess, her weight falling into his waiting embrace, all for him to hold and use as he pleases.

Just as sensitive as she is in that moment, Mylenne nearly flinches when a dark finger pushes into the heat of her folds, a thumb grinding against her nub.

“Oh, Lid…” She’s the one begging now, her back arching like a bowstring, skin overheated with the bittersweet feeling of his magic all wrapped around her. His index finger—nearly as big as two of hers—plunges deeper into her, holding her lower body as like a fish hook, the hand holding the back of her neck pulling her violet hair and exposing the column of her neck to him. “Always yours, forever yours…” She chants with what remains of her voice, eyes fluttering close.

“Always mine,” Illidan says back to the crook of his neck, his voice reflecting the control he reins over them both—deep and hard, making her heart flutter and further igniting the fire inside her. “ _Forever mine…_ ”

His fingers abandon the heat from between her legs and for a mere second, she thinks that he’ll suddenly stop all their activities until the voice of reason reminds her of the opposite. As if by cue—but not really, because he knows, he _always knows_ —the replacement comes in the form of his shaft, brushing and grinding against her just in the way _he knows_ she likes it.

Grabbing her hips and handling her just as easily as he handles his magic, he drives himself into her, burying to the hilt and in the slick wetness of her in one fluid motion—nearly bruising, given his urgency in doing so—hitting home and all her buttons at once.

Her voice comes out raw, all but screaming and reverberating in all the corners of their living room. A deep groan escapes him as well, right from the bottom of his throat just as he starts to move below her—the fire from the hearth flickering violently in the wake of his magic, spreading and enveloping them both in waves of hot heat.

And that’s who Illidan really is, deep down and even more so when he’s with her—when he’s in her. It’s his voice, his body, his magic, all the air around him screaming with pure, unfathomable _passion_.

“Lid—oh, please,” She begs, not really sure _what_ she’s begging for but feeling the need of doing it so either way. His arms wrap around her, one of them encircling her hips to move and manage her body in the way he—and therefore, she—pleases. Her name comes out of his lips in a growl, low, possessive, full of promises, and she can only send him a weak smile in thanks before her head falls to his shoulder.

Even when everyone else could think of Illidan as a near violent, selfish, ill-tempered sorcerer, she’s the only one that can see him through all those defensive walls, as the incredibly tender and affectionate man he really is. And that gets clearer than ever within his thrusts into her—harsh and almost bruising, yet measured, calculated, all deliberated to reach the places they both want to reach. When she quivers, he’s right there to hold her, filling his arms with her just exactly as she gets filled with him.

So he pumps and thrusts into her, stretching her in delicious and unimaginable ways as he buries his face between her breasts, tasting skin, dead magic and sweat altogether whenever his tongue can reach. The hot heat inside her builds up until it starts to expand to her limbs, bringing her a newfound energy that she only uses to grip him tightly, holding onto him for dear life.

His lips find one of her earlobes. “I love you, Mylie…” It’s all that Illidan breathes, and all that she needs to finally shatter and explode around him, stars dancing before her eyes and wailing screams swallowed by his hungry mouth.

With her tense muscles clenching around him, he’s coaxed to follow her right away, delving as deep as he can before trembling below her, a last deep moan escaping him and disappearing into her lips.

They stay still for a long time, savoring the aftermaths of their lovemaking, chests brushing together with their panting. The feeling of his swelling shaft presses onto their joining, still odd and not yet quite used to, but it only takes a little move of her hips to adjust and lock him inside her.

It’s a new experience for both of them—the locking of their bodies, that is—and neither is still quite sure how to feel about that; yet the new level of their relationship and the intimacy of it all it’s satisfying and wanted enough for them to not to think so much about it. Only the Goddess will decide what’s next for them, so it can’t be anything but wise to allow the nature to take its course and not the other way around.

In the end and to her surprise, their locking gets to be the ultimate proof of their undeniable belonging to one another—and that’s something Mylenne cherishes just as much as she does with anything that has to be with Illidan.

As he moves to spread them both and take over the couch, her head finds the spot to rest just above his shoulder, close to the crook of his neck. It’s the perfect place for her to be and breathe him in, with his male scent soothing her thoughts and his heartbeat singing its usual lullaby to the ear pressed on his chest.

Eventually, he speaks. “Was this a once every one hundred years event?” His voice is tinged with curiosity—as if he needs some encouragement to find its liking or his ultimate repulsion to the matter.

But she chuckles, already knowing that he loved every second of it—yet she’s not waiting for him to admit it. So, she gives him a way out, “Well, that depends. Turning two thousand and five hundred years is quite enough for a special occasion,” She cranes her neck to look at his face, “But my _kal-tora_ is right around the corner…”

Illidan hums, bending his head a little to reach her face, “And how far is ‘around the corner’? Forty years? Sixty?”

“Twenty-five, _surfas_ ,” She corrects him, stretching to kiss his hard chin in a lazy gesture, barely a peck. “But I can make up another excuse if you need one. You only have to ask,” He chuckles low and shakes his head, sharp teeth showing behind his smile and pretending to bite her cheek in reprimand.

“I actually counted them,” He admits after some minutes of silence, adjusting their position a little better. “And this may be an irony but, twenty-five years left for your _kal-tora_ , you said? That’s exactly the amount of times you kissed me tonight.”

She mirrors his smile, blushing a little and brows creasing in surprise. He had already surprised her that night, and yet… “Well, it isn’t daytime as far as I can see. Maybe you should help me in making out for the ninety-nine percent that’s left?”

“I think I already found a liking to these _kal-torai_ …”


	3. Creeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for clumsiness and kinda odd stuff. Not very proud of this part, though. 
> 
> **Creeping:** Cheating; stalking.  
>  **Concupiscent:** Lustful or horny; having strong sexual desires.

** Darnassian: **

**Sar’thera:** A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang: **Sart(e)**.

 **Quel / Quel'dorei:** Children of noble birth, also slang for "Highborne".

* * *

** Illidan **

“Why, _he-llooooo_ … Would you take a look at this,” Lothrius rests his weight on one hip, a long finger tapping his mouth as if in thought, “I mean it, Illidan, check this out!” He points at the board with an insistent tilt of his head, golden eyes gleaming with excitement.

Settling his laundry bag over his shoulder and still waiting for Syrana to catch up with them, he walks the necessary steps to the news board and his friend, “This better not be a sudden change of shifts again. It’s Syra’s turn to deal with Hargo this month,” Illidan grumbles, ready to protest, “I’ve had enough of these _sarte_ until the next full moon.”

“Nah, this is totally better, and should probably stop your insufferable late brooding,” Lothrius remarks with a snort as he stabs a thumb over one of the announcement notes, standing close to the center of the plaza. “… It’s a party!”

With a cobalt eyebrow quirking up in interest, Illidan cranes his neck to look over Lothrius’ shoulder, taking a quick look at the piece of parchment posted in the middle of the board.

_“Without a partner to enjoy the festivities? Tagging alone in this fertility season… again? Say no more! Join us at the Thirsty Magister for our famous blind costume party!_

Quel _free and without judgment (at all!), come and grace us with your presence for the modest price of ten (10) silvers *****! We promise a sing-along night, absolutely no boundaries and a full-stocked bar attended by the hottest waitresses in the outskirts. Anything goes!_

_ Requirements for every attendant (no exceptions): _

_\- 1000 years old, or older.  
\- No _quel _allowed._  
_\- Not to be bonded nor married (widowers, you’re fine)._  
_\- Disguised as another kaldorei to protect identities—may that be through use of masks, wigs, face paint or magic disguises._  
_\- Use of names will be forbidden._

_***** Until 4 hours, then fees may vary within sunrise. Price for admission and full service (one room included): One (1) gold.”_

“Did somebody say party?” Syrana startles him momentarily as she throws an arm over his free shoulder. “Consider me in!” She doesn’t even take a glance at the note, surely trusting for her friends to give her the impertinent details.

Lothrius’ blue eyebrow quirks up as he strides ahead, “Even when you’ll have to wear another’s face to enter this one?” He wonders, taking the parchment along and stuffing it into one pocket.

“This looks like Silgryn’s doing,” Illidan ponders, his sour mood lessening and getting contagious with his friends’ enthusiasm, “Or maybe Vanthir’s…” Encircling Syrana’s waist with his free arm, they follow Lothrius’ way. “No, totally smells like Silgryn’s.”

As the most recent Spellcaster leads the way and explains the ordeal to Syrana, Illidan takes a moment by really considering the idea. The offering of a whole night and good part of the morning disguised as someone else—no boundaries, no attachments, only a nameless man relaxing and mingling along with equally nameless people—sounds too good to let it pass.

Mostly so, when the whole romantic and merry mood—coming from the current fertility season—had started to get on his nerves as for the last few weeks. And a party as that may be a nice way to tolerate the two months left for the season to end.

“You know what?” Lothrius stops his walking all in a sudden, face brightening as he turns around in an exaggerated movement and faces him. “I just had the best idea: Let’s switch faces!”

“Mmh, well, that gives me an image…” Syrana hums beside him, two fingers rubbing her chin before a wicked smile clings to her lips, “A _very nice_ image, by the way.”

“Aha, and let me guess,” Illidan adds as the three of them take the way down the street, “I’d bet it’s an image of Loth, mostly naked, spread all over a couch while sporting my long and handsome hair…”

“Why, Lid, always thinking so less of me!” She fakes a pout before snickering. “More like _completely naked_ , I’d say.”

* * *

“Want me to bring you something else, handsome?” The waitress, Verene—and probably the only one around the bar not costumed for the occasion—approaches to his table, throwing a cute smile his way.

Returning the gesture, he relaxes further on the couch, arms spreading to the sides and taking the advantage of having the seat all for himself, “Another ale would be nice, thank you,”

Handing the coins and with the waitress returning to the crowded bar, an amused snort escapes his mouth with the sight of the man wearing his face, bringing a woman that looks like Mylenne with him by the waist, many eyes settled on them as they take over a good chunk of the dance floor.

He may never know why Syrana decided to disguise as Mylenne, yet his first guess goes for a prank on him—and a nice one, if he’d admit, given how odd they look together; ‘Mylenne’ with her violet hair half-lengthier and ‘Illidan’ not as tall and broad as him, getting to her eye level.

With a refilled ale, he opts not to dwell or ponder about who is who, however interesting the game may be. Because while none of the attendants seem to be who they are, still, it gets too easy for him to figure out who hides behind their disguises—not even the most complicated of spells being able to cover their eyes, or gestures, or particular perks of each kaldorei around the bar.

Relaxing further in his seat, he spends some minutes by taking a look around, spotting more disguised faces as they go by, a good part strolling to the dance floor when a new singer takes place. He hums in consideration, taking a slow drink of his ale after he notices the majority of people being females; although it’s not something unusual at all, given the current time their society is going through.

It gets to be remarkably obvious how females are affected around fertility seasons; their lighter moods, easier smiles, and slightly brighter auras all around for him to capture his complete attention. Even the nights are hotter than usual—a little bit more humid than the typical summer air, a little bit heavier as well—somehow getting the feeling as if the whole nature insists on them, nearly _calls_ for people to mate with one another.

Feeling lighter than before—surely thanks to the copious amount of drinks he had—he allows his gaze to idly wander furthermore, catching a glance of a group of four Sisters close to the bar; two of them seated next to a couple of males that look like Hargo and Jarod, the remaining women dancing together clumsily.

The ones that look like Shalasyr and Alathea, he pays no mind—already recognizing the clumsiness from the second and smaller woman that could only belong to Thania, and the tough gaze from the first that reminds him of Maiev—but the two other Sisters, those are harder to figure out.

‘Sylenna’ appears to be quite entrenched in a conversation with ‘Hargo’, unlike ‘Tyrande’ who looks more interested in taking furtive looks at the dance floor, seemingly looking for someone.

With a confident feeling coming from his gut, he works in emptying his ale and saunters to the bar, taking precious care in acting as if he doesn’t know either the Sisters nor the males in the group, signaling Vanthir for another drink.

“Poor girl, I almost feel sorry for her,” He hears ‘Hargo’—the voice of Silgryn revealing his true identity—chuckling in no small amusement, leaning further in his seat and conveniently closer to his male friend as he nurses his drink.

The woman that looks like Sylenna chuckles in no small amusement, her incredibly long silver hair tied up in a high ponytail accidentally brushing his side, “Leave her be, that’s just how she is,” ‘Sylenna’ giggles, her back facing him, though he doesn’t need to see her face to notice the slur in her words—sounding evidently drunk.

He pretends to not hear them as he takes a sip, yet one of his ears twitch in slight recognition of the voice beside him, an unconscious frown narrowing his face. _No, that can’t be her. She’s surely hanging out with… well, with the_ real _Hargo at this hour._ Syrana had already told him Hargo wouldn’t be attending the party, so it’s easy for him to assume that Hargo’s lover, Mylie, would be with him as well.

 _And probably shagging and ravishing each other, as usual…_ , he thinks, barely containing the utterly disgusted snort that threatens to escape him with the thought of them, gulping half of his ale in the process. It’s already complicated to tolerate Hargo’s presence in Mylie’s odd group of misfits—group that he turned out to be included all in a sudden—but the mere thought of that man having his easy way with his friend is repulsive enough for him to be pondering about it.

There’s that and, of course, his complete refusal to admit to anyone he’s clearly _jealous_ —nearly going green with pure envy every time he happens to see them snuggling or sharing flirty looks.

He’s not sure how long he’d spent dwelling on the bar, but he nearly startles when the woman beside him gets moving, bidding farewell to her group as she saunters away—seemingly doing her best to walk properly, yet not succeeding so much given her evident drunken state.

As for him not having his curiosity sated enough, he opts to follow her as subtly as he can, pretending to walk to the washrooms as he keeps track of her silver mane. When she stumbles on her way up the stairs leading to the bedrooms, he takes his chance, quickly striding her way and holding her forearms to keep her from tripping over.

“Whoa… silly me, always drinking more than I can take,” Sylenna laughs nervously, straightening a little. “Thank you, Loth—uhm, whoever you are, sorry…” She blurts out then, shaking her head and blinking hard as if trying to focus.

He only shrugs, not giving that slip up much importance, “Always happy to help distressed ladies such as you,” He jokes, growing bolder and more confident when her feminine and very appealing scent reaches his nose.

The woman certainly doesn’t appear to get any more nervous when he keeps holding her back with his full palm, so he doesn’t feel like maintaining some distance, following her way up the stairs as she mumbles something about ‘some stupid sandals getting in her way’.

On their way up, he opts to test the waters a little more, allowing his hand to slowly travel down her spine in a teasing manner. Fortunately, he’s not smashed enough to not notice her slight shivering, making him bite his lower lip as she straightens up a little bit more, yet not making any movement for him to back down.

As if she just remembered something, she suddenly stops when they reach the first floor. “Shouldn’t you be dancing and mingling around with your friends?” She prompts, looking at him from behind her bare shoulder.

“Who said my friends are really here?” A sly smirk crosses his lips, watching her as she leans against the wall.

Her chin points lazily across the railing and to the dance floor below them, aiming at the disguised figures of Lothrius and Sylenna swaying along, pressed up together and merely inches apart. “Ah, those two? Well, they seem to be busy, as you can already see,” He shrugs, returning his gaze to her and taking a step closer, “And I am rather more interested in other… _activities_ , instead of just dancing.” He adds with a sultry tone.

“Like finding out if I’m really who I appear to be, I believe.” The woman assumes, seemingly doing a hard work of keeping her eyes on him.

He shakes his head, taking a step closer, “No, I actually don’t care, not tonight,” He declares, placing a hand on the wall and right beside her silver head, leaning a little further into her personal space, “Unlike you, it seems. Why coming to a party such as this if you’re not fond of anonymity?”

“Well, I… I actually can’t help with being curious,” She confesses, blushing profusely with their close distance. She looks at his face as if searching for answers, “Though I’ll admit I’ve been more interested to find out who _you_ really are…”

A near purr escapes him, delighted with her attention as he finally rests his other hand beside her, effectively trapping the woman between him and the wall.

A wicked gleam flashes on her silver eyes—so gorgeous and so bright, like two silver beacons flaring with the purest light, reminding him of… “Look into my eyes, then. Maybe you’ll find out,” The words escape his mouth without him able to take them back.

She obliges right away, his heart missing a beat along with the intensity of her gaze as well as the woman he pictures having those beautiful eyes. _Oh, Mylie…_ , sighs the little voice of his conscience as his own golden gaze idly travels further down, fixing on her plump lips as she says, voice trembling, “Do I re—really want to know?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. That’s not for me to decide.”

His mind goes racing abruptly, the amount of alcohol he had certainly helping along with the dozens of thoughts that start assaulting him after their lips met. She smells like Mylie, sounds like Mylie, even _feels_ like Mylie… but it can’t be her.

_So much for not dwelling on who is who…_

His breath hitches, suddenly hesitating to go along and merely brushing her lips with his as his arms drop to the sides, giving the woman a way out.

 _You just kissed Mylie._ No, he didn’t, it’s not possible.

 _How so? Then ask for her name_. He can’t do that, that’s not the way it goes in that party.

 _Who cares about that? Kiss her again, you big_ sart _! You know you want to_.

Yes, he so terribly wants to, but should he? If it’s really _her_ … if there’s the slightest chance he just kissed the woman—Elune’s glowing tits, the _friend!_ —he’d been longing for quite a while, then he may possibly be in for a very, _very_ big trouble.

But a small, trembling hand brushes the side of his neck, sending him shuddering, half-purring and half-growling altogether, growing a little more aroused and close to panic at the same time. “I… I have… I shouldn’t…” She mumbles, her breath fanning over his mouth.

_I should go. This is wrong, plain wrong._

“You shouldn’t.” He repeats, his voice slightly firmer than hers, not daring to open his eyes, his heart racing wildly as dread starts to overtake the rational part of his mind. _This is so wrong, oh Goddess, I need to leave right now. What was I thinking—?_

His mind goes blank all in a sudden, a small groan escaping his mouth when she pushes him down, soft lips crashing with his with a fierceness he never had to handle with anyone before.

Somehow, without knowing, it’s exactly what he needs to not fret and strengthen his resolve.

All that’s left of his sanity abruptly vanishes as he pushes her roughly against the wall, returning her kiss with the same eagerness, nearly devouring each other. A small whimper escapes her—as if she just realized what she had provoked—but it doesn’t seem to be enough for her to let him go, pushing him further down and pressing her body against his.  

A spark ignites inside him right when he pulls out for air, only a mere moment before pulling aside some strands of hair and aim for her ear, the side of her neck, every expanse of skin he can reach.

She tries to entangle one nimble leg to the back of his, yet apparently decides otherwise when his breath ghosts right below her ear; instead gripping his vest and pushing them both into the closest room, only using an elbow to push open the door and getting them inside hurriedly.

With sharp teeth nibbling his lower lip, he almost loses his footing, backing her to a new wall as he blindly pushes up the hems of her dress, her incredibly long legs traveling up as well to encircle his waist. As he squeezes her backside, a near painful groan escapes them both—tongues curling and battling as their hips grind against each other, a surge of deep arousal threatening to turn his legs into jelly.  

Oh, Sylenna tastes so temptingly, so wonderfully nice—no, _Mylie_ , or is she… who is she again? Right, because he can pretend, can he? That’s what he’d been doing all night, after all, so he can pretend to be kissing Mylenne. Alright, they may be more close to _humping_ than just kissing, but it's not like he'll complain about it. So, yeah, right, he can pretend.

 _Oh, Goddess, but you_ are _kissing Mylie! Can’t you just believe it, for once? Why are you lying to yourself?_

He opts for shutting that voice down with another rough grind of his hips, the fabric of her underclothes rubbing against his very tight trousers, her nails clawing at the back of his neck and lips opening as she breathes sharply into his mouth.

No, it’s not like he can’t believe it, but rather more that he doesn’t _want_ to; the thought of the woman clinging to him being only a product of his imagination is quite enough to soothe his dark thoughts.

As well as it works to keep him from thinking about the whole consequences of it, if he’s not only tricking to himself.

But she tastes like pure heaven and smells like the precious lilies he’d grow so fond to relate to her, and then a shameless moan escapes her—the voice so remarkably similar—sending his heart fluttering; the pretense getting too real all in a sudden and making him crave, _ache_ for her as he grips her thighs harder, delving most of his passion into her lips as he kisses her again, once, twice, thrice.

Yet, as she fumbles with his clothes rather clumsily, the back of his legs hitting the bed, he feels some other places aching as well… like his head and stomach, threatening to take over whatever’s left of his senses.

They land over the mattress in a tangle of legs and arms, the air coaxed out of his lungs when the woman topples him, still eager to keep on their task of near devouring each other—until his eyes drift open and the room starts to spin.

“Ugh…” He grunts, attempting for some words, his companion understanding his abrupt discomfiture somehow, adjusting with the same clumsiness as before—still straddling him but keeping some distance. “I, uhm… I think I need a minute,” He manages to blurt out, the effects of the alcohol starting to wear heavily on him.

From his half-lidded eyes, he sees the blurry face of Sylenna nodding in some agreement, the tired voice of Mylenne muttering something he can’t recall properly as she falls beside him. “Too much… Cider… should stick to wine,” She murmurs, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “Yeah… I thi—think I’ll be lying here too…”

He takes a deep breath and decides to collect himself the best way he can, unwilling to not finish what they have already started. However, is as he buries a hand in her silver hair and another goes south to grip one of her bare thighs, her head lolls down to rest over his shoulder, falling into slumber within the next minute.

 _You’re an awful mess when you’re smashed, you knew that?_ The small voice invades his mind once more, disappointment more than obvious in its tone and mirroring his still disguised face, sighing deeply as he drops his head on the mattress.

The face of Sylenna relaxing on top of his chest is the last he sees, and the scent of Mylenne invades his nose and brain before his smashed state gets the better of him—eyes drooping closed and a last tired sigh escaping his lips, falling asleep with the woman cuddling next to him.

* * *

Illidan grunts when some rays from the afternoon sun reach his face, coming right from the small window located beside him. In an unconscious gesture, he idly calls for his magic and closes the curtains, turning around in the bed as a headache returns with the force of a hundred bears.

_Well, it could have been worse: I haven’t dreamed this time, at least…_

Without the need to open his eyes to notice the absence of whoever was with him last night, he opts for blindly pushing another pillow down, hugging it loosely as the remains of a female scent cling to him, soothing the pounding of his head a little bit.

Muffled steps are heard from the outside, yet he doesn’t have any ounce of strength to focus or recall the voices chatting around the hallway, instead burying himself further between the small stack of pillows.

 _Note to self: Never attend a party made up by Silgryn Stareye..._ again _. It will obviously end up in disaster._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deep respect for those that - somehow - guessed who is who, lol.


	4. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for sexual tension. Not precisely spoilers for Starsurge, but sort of (?).**
> 
> For [Ilgisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgisa), filling their kissing prompt on Tumblr: #20 top of head kisses.
> 
> D for Dancing, Dreaming, Daring.

 

** Darnassian: **

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

 **Surfas:** Endearment for “Dear” or just “Love”.

 **Kal-tora(i):** Literal: “Birth night”. (Trivia: Kaldorei celebrate birthdays every 100 years) 

* * *

** Silgryn **

The nicest thing with making a friend’s bar some sort of constant—and remarkably close to permanent within each night passing—location for spending the nights and days isn’t really for Vanthir’s neat storage of finest wines and fanciest ales Suramar could offer. Sure thing, the bartender’s meals and drinks still keep being close to the top of the list, but the nicest thing from ‘living’ in The Thirsty Magister are the _mornings._

The quiet hours that come after the Moon comes to rest are actually what Silgryn treasures the most. More precisely, those moments when the bar quickly empties from unknown newcomers and customers as the day arrives, leaving only his and his niece’s known friends and acquaintances as the only occupants. It’s a wonder from which he still keeps questioning and pondering about from time to time, how Mylenne and he have managed to gather so many different _dorei_ and created that odd group—or band of misfits, so to say—he dearly likes to think of as a _family_.  

That particular morning had been so far one of the best Silgryn had in weeks, the monotony of it all settling in and easing his constant racing mind, a funny snort inevitably leaving his mouth as he glances around the hall, half of his lavender face hidden behind his set of cards.

To his surprise and as he drops a fine set of Dukes on the table for the players to see, Silgryn finds Sulky quite at ease, only shrugging after losing for a fourth time yet still looking up for another round. “My, my… Not tired yet of losing your gold, lad?” He can’t help but wonder, passing the cards to his lover as his turn comes for sorting another deck. “Can’t complain, though. This is looking forward to being a lovely morning to earn more juicy coins!”

Close to the stage, he spares a look at the ever merry Slender, rehearsing a silly song with Little Moon and Baldy—the last one probably too eager to participate in whatever could involve an experiment, even if that involves music instruments rather than magics and telemancy.

“A shame your… _mistress_ isn’t here to play with us,” Arluin smirks slyly, making a small show of mixing and sorting the cards with practiced ease as he gives Sulky a funny look, “It’d have been nice to win some blessed gold for a change. You’ll never hear me complain about getting a couple of lucky tokens for the ride,”

“How would you if you’re always winning?” The lad snorts, his permanent cobalt frown finally making their regular appearance, tapping his dark fingers on the table in an impatient manner. “And mind you, Sylenna’s _not my mistress_. Keep that nonsense to yourself,”

Silgryn lets out a funny cackle, “Ooooh, beware, everyone! Sulky’s about to get sulkier!” He laughs as he saves the gold he earned from the previous game, exaggeratedly shaking his hands in a pretense to be terrified.

The only woman gathering in the table intervenes, “Well, cute Lid here has a reputation to maintain,” Cleavage explains with one of her charming smirks, patting her friend’s shoulder rather mockingly, “He’s famous to put the rage in _Stormrage_ after all!” The sorceress adds, instantly making everyone in the table but Sulky to nearly explode in a fit of laughter.

Wiping out some tears from laughing too much, Silgryn gets a sudden feeling of something—or someone—amiss. However, he doesn’t ponder about it for long, the opportunity of keep molesting the young lad being too good to just let it pass. “Where’s your mistress, though? Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen those cute puppy eyes of hers,” He admits, sipping on his ale and not bothering to look at his new set of cards just yet.

The lad neither bothers to spare a look at him, however. “Don’t know, don’t care,” He deadpans, fixing his golden eyes on his cards as if he hadn’t said anything relevant. “Mmh, I’m feeling lucky for this one. Your bets, ladies and Arluin?” It’s after nobody reacts at his silly joke when Sulky glances at his friend, seated beside him, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“… You broke up with Sylenna, aren’t you?” Cleavage says in a scornful tone, navy mane falling down her shoulders as she leans back in her seat, giving her friend a knowing look. As Sulky doesn’t seem interested in replying, Arluin’s smirk turns into a full grin at the statement, their previous mirth quickly switching into a collective groan, “Damn you, Stormrage! Couldn’t you just wait one more month? Just one, _one!_ ”

With a tired sigh, Silgryn is forced to search his pockets for more coins, shaking his head in disappointment as he gives some silvers onto his lover’s grabby hands. Cleavage reaches for her… cleavage, reluctantly doing the same. “Should have known you knew about this all along before even placing the bets, you devious _dorei_ ,” Silgryn grumbles, sending an offended glare at Arluin as he keeps grinning in sheer satisfaction, kicking his leg under the table in an attempt to wipe that smug smile for good measure.

The lad just rolls his eyes and huffs in disapproval, yet he doesn’t comment further, definitely more interested in keep playing rather than maintaining that line of conversation. Eventually, the group returns their attention to the card game, the musicians at the opposite corner of the hall settling into a chill rhythm, Little Moon’s sweet voice doing wonders with easing everyone’s particular moods. 

Everyone but Mylie, so it seems, her uncle only able to judge by the exasperating look on her face—wearing a nasty frown he’d relate to the young lad currently playing cards with rather than with his niece, lips pursed tightly as if keeping herself from nearly snapping at Pretty Boy standing next to her.

As she appears to be arguing with her lover, it comes to be a repetitive sight for Silgryn rather lately. However, nobody else seems to be paying attention to them or worrying in the slightest except him and Vanthir, furtively glancing from behind his bar, pretending to be focused on cleaning some empty mugs. Unluckily and no matter how much he tries, Silgryn can’t really listen what they’re arguing about, and yet the view is just enough to notice how worked up Mylie looks like, figuring out—knowing her as much as he does—it’s surely about to get worse if Pretty Boy keeps that usual _annoyingly passive_ attitude of his.

Silgryn succeeds in keeping a cool face as it comes to be his turn to play a card, glancing through the corner of his eye at the boy’s clumsy ways to soothe her moods. He holds back a disapproving click of his tongue as Mylie’s lover places a kiss on her forehead, his magic flicking to life ever so slightly, unconsciously as always.

_Oh, boy… years of dating my girl and still so ignorant. When these young lads are ever going to learn to keep their magic to themselves, I wonder?_

With much-practiced subtlety, Arluin pats his knee under the table as a signal to make his move, his lover always true to his awareness of where his main priorities lay upon. Both share a brief look, Arluin not bothering to keep his gaze much longer as his turn to play comes, fingers who before were lazily tapping the table then stretching, making an idle count. One… two… three…

The shadow of a female figure looms over the table. “Let me get your mugs,” Mylie grumbles at the group, looking to be placing as much distance as she can from Pretty, not really waiting for a reply as she gets on grabbing their empty drinks. “Two more ales for you and Nightwine for Syrana, then. Cider for you, Lid?” She keeps it brief, pretty much eager to get on her way to the bar.

“I’m fine with whatever’s closest,” Sulky says nonchalantly, picking Silgryn’s curiosity when he doesn’t even take a furtive glance at his niece as she ties her long hair hastily, his golden eyes utterly fixed on his cards. Forcibly, he’d say, judging by the ever so brief grit of his teeth and slight clench of his jaw, the gesture nearly going unnoticed.

 _Huh, well, that’s odd,_ Silgryn ponders to himself, idly wondering what could be going through the lad’s head to be holding back his opinions in such a way. Before a wanderer, he’s a sharp observer, and Silgryn never missed the lingering looks Sulky always gave to his niece—his face nearly an open book, incapable of hiding what's on his mind, very much less so when it regards Mylie.

Quickly going through the facts, there are two possible assumptions that could explain his strange behavior. The first one relates to his then confirmed break up with the Priestess, and it wouldn’t be surprising to anyone if the lad were just more frustrated and sulkier than usual. After all, Sulky is way too predictable for Silgryn’s eyes, and he knows the lad wouldn’t do something like that just out of boredom or because it suddenly doesn’t suit his interests.

No, if Silgryn had to point out one of Illidan Stormrage’s most notable facts, is that he never takes action on anything without having a very particular reason to do so, and that’s something he pretty much relates with. And the most obvious explanation for his sudden break up is because he wants to make a move on his niece… again.  

Thinking of which, there’s the second—and definitely more problematic—assumption, that being with the lad returning to dreaming with Mylie once more, an uncomfortable sense of worry pooling around Silgryn’s gut at the mere thought. _Perhaps I shouldn’t prolong that talk much further; it’s already troubling how much the lad had endured without asking for help._

Sulky’s concerning impassiveness doesn’t last for long as Mylie returns to their table with refilled mugs for all, grumbling some nonsense under her breath. Right when Arluin plays a neat set of Magisters and Cleavage groans in frustration, the musicians at the stage settle for a more merry rhythm. However, the music isn’t loud enough for Silgryn to not miss Sulky’s slight growl as Mylie’s lover approaches, apparently looking forward to redoubling his efforts into making amends with her, gently pulling her to the dance floor.

“ _Tell me what you really like,_ surfas _I can take my time. We don’t ever have to fight, just take it step-by-step,_ ” Slender begins singing, looking more pleased with the sounds he prompts out of his guitar rather than with his chant, nearly appearing to be making up some words as he goes. His companions join with glee, their faces delighted as they all settle into the easy rhythm.

Silgryn just sighs in sheer content, relaxing in his seat and idly sipping his ale, enjoying the view just as much as Arluin, although doing his best with not laughing at the awful show Pretty Boy displays for everyone to see. “Well, at least he's trying, right?” Arluin chuckles, biting his lower lip and leaning an arm over Silgryn’s shoulder, “I almost feel sorry for him, though. What’s he doing with his arms?”

“Eh, I’m rather sorry for Mylie,” He can’t help with snickering, dropping his useless cards and sending his coins to join on his lover’s pile, “But consider me utterly entertained…”

“ _You've been scared of love and what it did to you. You don't have to run, I know what you've been through,_ ” No one in the bar—even Vanthir, still languidly rubbing and cleaning his mugs with a dirty cotton rag—seems able to keep their amusement to themselves, a mocking chorus of low chuckles and giggles joining the music as Pretty insists with his clumsy dancing. “ _Just a simple touch and it can set you free. We don't have to rush when you're alone with me,_ ”

It was publicly known for the young Officer to be quite apprehensive when it came to his dancing skills, usually having Mylie and Cleavage teaching him from time to time, with all the patience women like them can muster. And it had been a no small effort if someone asked Silgryn; for no matter how appealing and talented in magic the boy could be, if there’s something he never could really master, it’s the ability to dance properly.

His ridiculous show doesn’t help with his niece’s sour moods, her face scrunching as if mortified in no time, her patience and tolerance visibly wavering. Sulky neither appears pleased in the slightest, true to his usual temper as he gulps his strong Cider, doing his best with not staring at the couple—nearly about to make a hole on the table if he keeps fixing his eyes on it that much.

_At this point, I can’t tell if that’s just empathy or those two managing to get really moody at the same time…_

Silgryn forces himself to save that interesting thought for later, sending a sly smirk at his niece when she returns to the table for the third time. “Whatever it is, it’s not funny,” Mylie deadpans, stealing the mug of ale he’d been nursing from his hands, emptying it with two long gulps. From his seat, he can glance at Pretty sending a downcast look to Mylie’s back before taking his leave, definitely not up for trying a third time.

It’s not like nobody cares if the boy stays or goes, but more like no one feels up to intervene, no words spoken as Hargo’then grabs his coat and strides out of the bar—having the decency of not slamming the door close as he disappears.

Slender and Little Moon don’t bother with stopping either way. _“You don't need a lonely night,_ surfas _, I can make it right. You just have to let me try to give you what you want,”_ Probably in attempts to keep a merry mood, the cute girl takes more effort with the tunes she prompts out of her harp, tapping her feet along with the rhythm for good measure.

Mylie then sighs heavily and tiredly, shoulders dropping as she too opts to take her leave for the morning. However, his niece doesn’t get that far away before a hand snatches her wrist midway, one of Silgryn’s violet brows instantly quirking up in sheer curiosity. “That’s what you get when you grab the wrong partner,” Sulky begins, impassive, his face showing nothing except that intense golden gaze he always carries when his eyes lay upon her.

Cleavage pretends to be deeply interested in her sharp nails while Arluin takes advantage of their distraction to grab all the money spread on the table for himself, although Silgryn doesn’t bother to look away—not an ounce of shame in his features as he leans further back in his seat and just stares. “Oh, and you think you’re the right one?” Mylie snorts, holding Sulky’s gaze in a rather challenging manner.

They share a hard look for the longest of moments, silver against golden, and if looks could kill, Silgryn’s sure they’d both be pleading for their lives by then… or about to shag the other senseless.

“Is that even a real question?” Silgryn can’t help with whistling mockingly under his breath, watching in sheer amusement as for how Sulky’s mouth curves upwards ever so slowly, a smug smirk showing.

“ _You've been scared of love and what it did to you. You don't have to run, I know what you've been through. Just a simple touch and it can set you free. We don't have to rush when you're alone with me,_ ”

It takes a mere moment for the lad to drag her to the dance floor once more, not as gently as her previous dancer, not as harshly either. “Dear Elune and the stars above…” Cleavage breathes, making an exaggerated display of fanning herself, adding a shake of her navy-haired head.

“Indeed, milady,” Arluin agrees wholeheartedly, whistling shamelessly at the dancers, the three of them leaning back in their seats, definitely intent on watching the show.

In his near five thousand years, Silgryn never would have thought of having the luck to see such an impeccable pair of _dorei_ —like two crucial pieces of a puzzle fitting together before him. No matter how many wonders of the world he’d seen in his uncountable travels, he can count on a single hand the amount of sights that have left him in awe slightly more than the one of those two.  

He can’t help with a dear smile showing on his face at the secret language they speak as they dance—their moves sultry and sensual, yet adding up a tint of caring in between and when their eyes meet, as if reminding themselves where they appear to stand with the other from time to time. Merely touching, they provoke the other, giving and taking quite a lot, yet always keep themselves from not provoking _too much._

As they settle into a faster rhythm, they’re then like two big pompous _hippogryphs_ , a sense of hyper-awareness brushed aside as they twirl and sway around each other, working their way to get the other’s unwavering attention. Even when they’re flawless and don’t mistake any single step, that doesn’t seem to ease the heated glares they send to one another, neither backing up from the chance to make an impression.

Silgryn’s not sure if to cackle or smack his forehead in frustration, wondering when they are ever going to stop their utterly stupid courtship and take their much-needed leap for _everyone’s sakes_. Knowing Mylie and Sulky’s usual demeanors, then probably never, or at least not without a little… intervention.

If it should come from him, Silgryn can’t say, not yet feeling worthy of getting in the middle of what evidently looks like the hand of fate. He had already intervened too much in the ways of the Goddess and still, as much as surely the third is the charm, he can’t really tell if his intrusion would bring the outcome he expects for his most cherished _dorei_ in the world.

Although, if he had to be completely honest with himself, it’s not like he’s merely unsure—in fact, he’s _terrified_.

But then, as the beat slows a little and Mylie rests her back against Sulky’s chest, he whispers something in her ear and she _smiles_ , a fit of giggles boiling up from her chest up to her throat; Silgryn’s own widening into a full grin at the sight.

“Well, that’s it. Fifteen golden coins for them to be all over each other,” Cleavage rubs her hands together, keeping him from hearing what his niece says back to her dancing partner. It’s not like he really needs to listen what Mylie’s saying, however, for her flushed face speaks volumes of her current state.

“Bah, that’s no real bet, Lady Syrana. Make it thirty at least,” Arluin clicks his tongue, sparing a glance at the couple then swaying idly and languidly. “And before her _kal-tora_ ,”

Silgryn snorts in amusement, not bothering to look away from Mylie and Illidan, too immersed onto each other to notice all the bar’s eyes on them. “Fifty coins and a marriage…” He raises the bet, watching intently as how Illidan places a kiss on Mylie’s temple—sweet and tenderly, yet careful. _Tentative_ , nearly as if he’s testing the waters. “In less than an Embrace, I dare say,” He has to add, only able to make an idle prediction with the current sight.

The musicians appear to be torn between stop playing or just keep going, the atmosphere quite better after managing to ease those two’s bitter and sour moods. Eventually, Slender settles for the latter, relaxing in his chair just as much as the dancing couple in each other’s arms.

 _Oh, Drie, if you could see your daughter right now…,_ Silgryn rests his cheek on a fist as he ponders about the view of them. While it doesn’t appear to be a proper time to have a serious talk with Mylie, perhaps, just perhaps, the time may be right to get those two on telling them one of his ancient—and most special—stories: The tale of the Starsurge. _Will be interesting to know what the lad would think about that._

“Why, I thought the marriage part was already implicit,” The woman on the table huffs, slightly taking him out of his reverie, looking ready to settle another game for the three of them. “Oh, Silgryn, you’re mean. A whole Embrace? That’s a damn long time for me to wait to get really drunk, you know…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lothrius and Thania's song: [I feel it coming, by The Weeknd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFLhGq0060w) (slightly modified)
> 
> Probably this scene will also be added on The Thirsty Magister.


	5. Electrophilia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for choking as well as deep kinks. Tread carefully, I guess?**
> 
> For [IncendiaTheRed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/IncendiaTheRed), filling their kissing prompt: _#2: Moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed._
> 
> **Electrophilia** : Electricity  
>  **Exotic, Edging, Exposure**

** Darnassian: **

**Dalah Jai’dore:** Endearment. Figurative translation for “Moon of my life”.  Trivia: Jai’dore comes from an old dialect, referring to a myth regarding the first females who walked among the land, the Daughters of the Moon. In current times, the meaning shifted until taking a similar reference to the period of Full Moon.

**Dorei:** Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

**Surfas:** Endearment for “Dear” or just “Love”. 

* * *

** Illidan **

Thinking about it, Illidan’s not sure if she’s ever stopped dancing that night. Probably for some minutes, but only to fetch more wine and ale and come back to the dance floor, swaying and moving freely, carelessly—her violet mane which had started to grow again waving like a flag, wrapped in a familiar ponytail on the crown of her head, unconsciously catching his eye and utmost attention.

A longing sigh escapes his lips, his face softening drastically. For after a very long time, Mylenne seems happier and more at ease with the world than ever, sending Illidan’s heart aflutter with joy at the sight.

They all had many reasons to assist to another of Silgryn’s customary parties that night, but as he rests his elbows and back on Vanthir’s bar, idly nursing his cider dangling in one hand, Illidan knows better than most. No matter the excuses her uncle had said before arriving, or their friends and family _oh so casually_ attending because ‘they had nothing better to do’: The party is for Mylenne, the Violet Star’s return to her homeland and successful recovery from near death.

As for not smiling genuinely for _centuries_ , he can’t help but wonder how she manages to prompt that from him so easily and naturally. Is this how it feels being in love? _As for being the first time, you seem to be handling it pretty well, Stormrage. I certainly can’t wait for when you get to ruin—_

A small lavender hand tugs at the top of his vest clumsily, unknowingly taking him out of his reverie in the perfect time. “How’s the most han-handsss—er,” Mylenne slurs the words, finding her own distraction as her fingers find a gap between his clothes, an index finger running down his sternum. “Why, heeeeello there…”

Still unskilled with handling her magic properly, her finger tickles his skin as it goes farther down, prompting Illidan to grab her hand before she dares going lower. “Having a good time, _dalah Jai’dore_?” He brings her hand to rest on the back of his neck, straightening a bit to pull her closer. However, with the mildly intoxicated state she seems to be into, that only makes her lean heavily over him—probably tripping over if he’d have done the exact same thing two weeks ago, when her legs were still unresponsive.

“Well, n-now I am…” She says sultrily, summoning some strength to pull his head down and softly nip his earlobe. Illidan does his best to keep his reflexes and not squirming, inhaling a measured breath as her free hand—as if having a life of its own—travels along his stomach, firm muscles twitching involuntarily with the feeling of claw-like nails tenderly scratching his skin.

A delicious heat starts pooling down his gut, getting too hard to ignore as Mylenne somehow traps him between her body and the bar, her figure not really covering that playful hand which keeps going further down. “ _Mylie_ …” He sends his first warning, an arm encircling her shoulders and bringing her closer—torn between pulling her flush against him in a way to stop her teasing or just let her keep going, prying eyes be damned.

It’s as she gropes his crotch without an ounce of shame when all Illidan can do is keep himself from jumping, hiding his face in the crook of her exposed neck, growling against her skin. “So _you are_ happy to sssssee me,” She snickers close to his ear, a very small hiccup following, the sound too endearing and cute—yet somehow not helping to keep the hot rush of arousal settling along.

The tip of his tongue travels from the column of her neck to her ear, finding magic tasting like her but smelling like his. He’s not sure if he’s ever found a more _alluring_ combination before, and still, who is he to complain? “The happiest _dorei_ alive,” Illidan smirks, another twitch from where she’s fondling him making their unspoken remark.

It’s torturing and exciting altogether, when she goes on teasing him in public, but Illidan can’t really find the will to stop her recurrent behavior. How would he anyway? He’d been craving to have her as he now does for centuries so far, all these years of courting each other only feeling like they’ve lost too much time—and as for how does anyone properly make up for that lost time, he can’t tell.

The only thing he’s certain he’d act upon, is to never let Mylenne out of his sights again. Not now that she’s completely, absolutely, in all its ways… _his._

A longing sigh—which could pass as a concealed groan—escapes his lips at the mere thought and her motions, surrendering to his body’s demands and pulling her flush against his chest, an easy thing due to her drunken state. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” Illidan whispers to the corner of her smirking mouth, taking precious care of not rewarding her with the kiss she seems to demand as she leans further close. “Maybe I should just throw you over this bar and have you right _here_ , right _now_ …” He pretends to think about it, a thumb brushing the corner of her jaw teasingly.

Her mouth quirks up, sheer amusement gleaming in her half-lidded eyes, “What’s s-ssstopping you?” Mylenne worries her lower lip, applying more pressure on her fingers as she strokes him slowly, provocatively, from bottom to top, trying to reach inside his trousers.

His eyelids flutter close involuntarily, her touch becoming near maddening, yet somehow manages to summon the strength to bat her hand away, intertwining her fingers with his in the process. Before letting her huff and complain about it, Illidan’s mouth finds hers, prompting her to swallow the groan threatening to escape him, holding her by the jaw as he presses onto her lips more firmly.

“Ew, ew— _eeeew!_ Not in front of the kids, you guys!” Silgryn whines from afar, making a show of covering Thania’s eyes—who happened to had the bad luck of dancing near the man. “Don’t look, Little Moon, trust me. We must preserve the only pure, innocent thing left in this city!”

Mylenne grunts against his mouth, leaning heavily on him and looking as if she just found out they’re not alone. “Aw, tired so soon, _surfas_?” Illidan fakes a pout, speaking loudly for the rest to hear. “Guess you leave me no choice but taking you home…”

Blatantly ignoring Syrana and Lothrius’ snickering from their table near them, he takes the near dead weight of his mate into his arms, trusting Mylenne to hold onto his neck as he brings her thighs to his waist, making their way out of the bar in a moment’s notice—only sending a quick wink in Silgryn’s general direction as a farewell. 

* * *

With precious care—and whether she likes the gesture or not—Illidan helps her hop down from their frostsaber’s saddle, prompting her on her feet yet holding her by the waist as he attempts to unlock the rune from his door in a rush. Not sure how his mate managed to do so, Mylenne’s mouth is instantly assaulting his neck after they get inside, pulling him against the nearest wall as the door shuts close.

He doesn’t pull her up right away, knowing she’d like to be on her feet after spending so long in recovery, but the thought doesn’t stop him from grabbing her by the jaw, crushing his lips against hers in a near desperate motion, craving to breathe her in. They don’t let go of each other on their way to the bedroom, pulling their clothes aside harshly, stumbling upon the back of his couch midway from the stairs.

“I— _oomph,_ Lid, I w-want…” She mumbles between breaks, panting hard and unable to finish a sentence properly. “ _Take me to our bedroom, surfas…_ ” Her soft voice then whispers inside his head, reaching places within him she couldn’t ever before, clouding the darkest places of his mind. “ _Let me have you all day to myself, and only to myself…”_

“It’ll be as my Lady commands,” Illidan croaks against her mouth, soothed and excited altogether, picking her up with a newfound energy, soft and weightless as if a plume, taking the stairs up two steps at the time.

At first, he’d been looking just for setting her gently into their bed, Mylenne’s smashed state and possible exhaustion leaving more activities out of the question. But his mate seems just as stubborn and aroused as he is, pulling Illidan with her and flopping down together on the mattress heavily, undoing his cobalt ponytail a little harsher than usual. Every expanse of lavender skin he reveals as he undresses her tingles and sparks faintly, Illidan’s hands feeling like boiling hot with the bright new magic they find, fingertips leaving searing trails alongside her chest.

His mate doesn’t protest; even so, she _encourages_ him to keep going, a faint moan falling from her lips as his fingers tease under the fabric of her bra—merely brushing, not needing to apply more pressure, goosebumps showing with the contact. Her higher sensitivities appear like a sign of her going into heat soon, but Illidan brushes those thoughts aside, too caught and focused in the current moment to worry about mere details. Mylenne’s only effort is to lift her head and catch his lower lip between her teeth, pulling him down and closer.

“Please, _surfas_ ,” She grunts against Illidan’s mouth after their tongues battle for dominance, squirming under him and searching for more friction. However, he has other—and better—plans for them both, pinning her in place with a heavy hand between her collarbones, shamelessly savoring the pleasure of her struggles to move under him.

He’s still a beginner with their new way of… _communicate_ with each other, leaning back and searching for her silver eyes as he brings his free hand into her line of sight, purplish magic faintly sparkling along his fingers. It’s as his mate worries her lower lip almost hurtfully, her eyes fluttering close, when Illidan knows he has her approval; a rumble coming straight from his throat as he delves down, kissing and licking his way down her body.

The wet trail of his tongue is followed by two sparkling fingertips, leaving an electric, tingling path in every expanse of lavender skin they come in contact with, sending her jumping and squirming even more strongly—panting as hard as if she just made a sprint from Azsuna to Suramar City. “ _That’s merely a tickle,_ ” She chuckles low, mockingly, the hint of a taunt mixed up with her musical laughter within his mind.

He snorts faintly against her chest, “I wasn’t even trying,” However, he still applies more pressure with his fingers, a thumb pulling the fabric of her bra aside, not even bothering to remove it as his tongue follows the path to a lilac nipple. Mylenne finally shuts up after he brings attention to her other breast with his sparkling fingers, her eyes rolling backwards and back arching involuntarily, her magical aura flaring for a whole second.

Illidan can’t help with glancing suspiciously at her from behind his lashes when his fingers delve lower, her lace undergarments nowhere to be seen. “I may have just dropped it downstairs,” His mate smirks from above, not bothering with opening her eyes, “ _And you didn’t notice? Oh my, you’re getting sloppy, my love…_ ”

“You just did that to keep me from ripping it off you,” He smirks back, partially disappointed and partially thankful—admittedly so, it’s been becoming a bad habit of his to shred her clothes away in the middle of his passions.

On his way down and where he’s been excruciatingly keeping himself from going just yet, he manages her like a doll, spreading her legs open and placing her trembling thighs over his shoulders; not giving her much time to think as he settles between, a devious smirk narrowing his face. He licks her sharply, from bottom to top, the motion sending his mate babbling nonsense—her moans loud and shameless, reverberating along their bedroom.

Her body seems to move at its own accord, not even its owner able to control it, but no matter how sensitive Mylenne may be, all he wants is to  prompt near _madness_ from her—one of his hands who were fondling her breasts languidly then traveling up, fingers closing over the long column of her throat. He takes precious care of applying pressure only where it’s needed; however, they’ve done that before and many times over, so Illidan’s constant worry with accidentally hurting her never appears.

No matter what, he’s aware and conscious his mate has all the power to stop everything within the blink of an eye if she wants to. For in truth—and comically enough, given their friends’ views on them—and inside their bedroom, Mylenne is actually his _Mistress_ and never, ever the other way around.

“You’re _impossibly_ more beautiful like this,” Illidan murmurs against her inner thigh, his choking on her helping for her body to stop squirming that much, leaving him free to roam where he pleases. “ _Dalah Jai’dore…_ ”

“Please…” Her throat bobs while he grips one of her trembling thighs, nails digging into her skin as he delves his tongue into her, tasting her fully and thoroughly. With her hands clutching his wrist as if for dear life, Mylenne’s magic flares like a beacon for a time-stopping second once again, nearly blinding him with its force, yet it feels like finally returning home after a long time in the wilderness.

Like the Moon— _his Moon_ —casting Her merciful light upon him. Like a blessing.

His fingers send tiny bolts of electricity along the expanse of her lavender skin, prompting Mylenne into a fight to regain some control of her body, her back arching like a bowstring anyways as Illidan’s thumb strokes along her nub—shameless, insistent, near forceful if he weren’t so strongly conscious of what he elicits on her.

But then, after noticing she’s dangerously near the edge, he stops short and all in a sudden—not even daring to breathe. She gasps loudly, her chest heaving, “Ooooooh, n-no, no, Illidan Stormrage, _don’t you dare_ —“

He’s still gripping her throat when he jumps away and up, silencing his mate as his tongue invades her mouth, making her taste herself, wholly swallowing the full moan that escapes her. Mylenne’s body searches for him—for any friction he can offer—but he’s also quick with stopping her, grabbing her wrists and placing her hands above her head. “Ssh, easy there. You know it always gets better…” Illidan soothes her after pulling out to breathe.

He’s hardly able to contain his own lust with the way her body stretches and bends under him. However, he only manages to wait until she’s down from her impending bliss before finally plunging forward and into her, easing up the near torment he’d been putting himself into. His mate mewls as he thrusts deeper, patient and teasing enough—as very usual—savoring the delicious feeling of being wrapped in her warmth.

His teasing games are long gone by then, hips rocking steadily, sensually; golden eyes fluttering close as he murmurs sweet endearments close to the corner of her mouth, cradling her flushed face with both hands. Somehow, Illidan momentarily allows her to set the pace, growing suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of her magic all around him, almost taking his breath away.

It’s as their limbs entangle together how their bodies, _themselves_ , also seem to do so; breaths, heartbeats, auras encompassing as one, intertwining like spider webs with every move of their hips—a near smoldering feeling that could only be described as _Mylenne_ reaching the darkest corners of his being. Like an all-consuming fire setting his fears, his insecurities, and all his wrongs aflame, leaving him with that constant need of melting onto her bones, of wrapping around all she is.

It’s like home. She feels—has always felt—like _home_. It’s where Illidan belongs and where he wants to stay for the rest of his eternity.

“I love you, Mylenne,” He knows he should say that more often, and yet no words or actions are enough to show how deep, genuine and pure is his adoration for her—in that regard, Illidan hadn’t ever surpassed his teacher. “I love you, _I love you,_ I love you so…” He nearly cries onto her open mouth, thrusting more eagerly, his upper body curving inwards and wrapping her smaller figure as much as he can.

His mate echoes his words like a chant, whispering dozens of endearments into his mind, but as Mylenne flares for a third time, Illidan feels like about to _burst_ in all ways possible—eyes stinging with tears, heart about to hammer its way out, muscles tensing as she spasms and clenches around him. When he finally explodes, she holds him tight as if for dear life, nails digging into each other’s trembling bodies, their names reverberating around his bedroom like the most beautiful of prayers.

Beautiful and perfect because it’s _theirs_ , something that belongs only to them. Because it’s _her_ who screams his name, making it everything completely _real_ and not another product of his imagination—no more dreams, no more hallucinations twisting his mind.

Mylenne is really _there_ below him, panting hard after their lovemaking, and after so many centuries of torture, it’s still terribly difficult for Illidan to genuinely believe the reality he’s living. That after so many obstacles, so much pain, they’re finally together as mates, it’s like the biggest of his dreams come true at last.

And yet, he’s so tired of dreaming… and so _afraid_ as well.

He’s not sure how that happened, but as Mylenne’s sweet voice brings him back to the present moment, he realizes he had literally burst into silly tears. “Ssh, _surfas_ , I’m here, I’m really here,” She soothes him, still wrapped tight all around him, fingers threading into his mess of a mane, “I know, I know, my love, but this is really true, this is real. _I’m really here with you,_ ” She insists, kissing his tears away delicately, holding his face and never protesting for his near dead weight atop hers.

Illidan rubs his forehead against hers, slowly coming down his bliss, “I want to have you like this for all eternity,” He murmurs, merely a whisper against her smiling mouth, breathing her in, basking in her words of reassurance, taking them as the only _anchor_ in his life—for that’s what Mylenne has always been for him.

“And you will, _surfas_. You will always have me,” Her lilac lips brush with his as she speaks softly, unwilling to let him go, not by a mere inch. “Not even death will keep me apart from you, Illidan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wanted to apologize for being away for so long. Life has been utter shit lately and well, there's that - still, I'm feeling awful for not updating for so long, although I hope you can understand.  
> As always, my whole heart goes with those ones who keep sticking and rooting for Mylenne and Illidan's story. It's a painfully long one, but honestly, your encouragement and support is what keeps me going ♥ 
> 
> So yes, please, never stop being as amazing as you all are, and for the millionth time, **thank you so much for everything**.


	6. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TheGermann, who I believe needed something like this ♥

**Falling**  
**Flirting, Friendship, First time**

* * *

** Darnassian: **

**Sar’thera:**  A pejorative, meant for someone who’s considered irritating or exasperating—mostly an idiot. Slang:  **Sart(e)**.

**Dorei:**  Shortened for Kaldorei. May refer to a person (regardless of gender), a youngster and also can be used in plural.

* * *

** Illidan **

Fair enough, it can just be the fourth bottle of Nightwine speaking—and that stuff is tough, even for him—but after exchanging another fleeting look with Mylenne, Syrana barely attempts holding back a silly giggle. At that time of night, Illidan had already lost count of how many times his friend couldn’t keep her amusement to herself, yet doesn’t find it as nearly funny as she does so.

Besides, it’s totally normal. They’ve been playing cards for the past two hours and he’s teamed up with Mylenne, they _must_ communicate somehow if either of them intends to keep their coins to themselves. Unlike his wealthy female friends, at least he knows he’s not up to losing a year of savings, very much less so to Syrana, of all people.

Not when—knowing her as he does—she’d spend it all in a single morning to a couple of popular courtesans at the nearest brothel. And _without inviting him,_ which is quite insulting.

As Mylenne saves the current round and mocks at Lothrius with a fancy pair of Magisters between her fingers, Illidan exhales softly and lowers his cards, doing a brief toast in her name and downing his glass with a single gulp. Something about the way she jests at the group reminds him of her uncle Silgryn, and he can’t help with reminiscing some past times with the—then sorely missed—elder Stareye, the good memories eliciting a smile out of him.

While waiting for Lothrius to fold the cards and start the next round, Illidan’s eyes linger on her wide grin, fully taking in the movement of her plump lilac lips and a cute wrinkle showing around the corner of her mouth. A thin strand of violet hair falls down her cheek and his hand moves forward like having a life of its own, determined to remove whatever would ruin the harmony of that beautiful and then slightly flustered face.

But Mylenne notices first, her grin faltering as she blows the hair away, his hand stopping midair and leaving him self-conscious of his silliness. With a quick thinking, he grabs her abandoned cards instead, shoving them at Lothrius across the table, returning to his glass of Nightwine afterwards.

A low groan escapes him after realizing he’d previously emptied his drink.

The women at the table give him a peeking glance and, out of nowhere, Illidan feels his face growing hot. He meets Mylenne’s silver eyes, a gleam of amusement crossing them, and narrows his own in a challenge, internally bracing himself for a funny remark from her part.

“Alright, you can have mine…” She says instead, throwing him off, dragging her Nightwine glass with an index finger and before him. His fingertips barely touch her skin as he grabs the drink, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity throughout all his extremities, heart missing a beat.

The exciting feeling gets cut off as fast as it came, though, his ears ringing with Syrana’s single clap of her hands next to his face. “Chop, chop! Less flirting, more playing!” Syrana teases, tauntingly dropping more coins on the table.

A near dozen awful things to say cross Illidan’s mind, but opts it out after a second thought, preferring to give Syrana one hell of an embarrassment after beating her at her own card game.

* * *

It may have come at a very high price; one that, given the chance, Illidan would surely take back without much reluctance. However, if anything fairly good came with Mylenne’s engagement to Jarod, that’s the impressive amount of party invitations she’s gotten with the escalating status among her fellow aristocrats.

And given her _sart_ of a father never attends them—unless being a good excuse for making business—Illidan gets to have a free pass to the fanciest parties thrown in Suramar.

He can’t help but admit that Lord Stareye’s absence is most likely a blessing from the Goddess, absolutely not looking forward to knowing his thoughts on his then _smashed_ daughter, clinging to Illidan’s sleeve and laughing hysterically, the two of them raving to the loud music like it’s the last night of their lives. Certainly not the picture of elegance and decorum that’s expected in a noble Lady such as her—even if the majority of the young nobles at the dancefloor aren’t really staying behind.

Not like Illidan cares about it in the slightest when he has Mylenne in his arms, all to himself. Very much less so when she’s looking as happy and exhilarated as he’s ever seen her before, flustered and drunk as she is.

It also makes all the pain they’ve endured and the damage they’ve done completely worth it.

The music climbs into a faster rhythm and Illidan tries grabbing her by the waist to keep her on her feet, yet it doesn’t work to his favor as a thick crowd of people jump and lunge their way; Mylenne’s laughter dying off as she blends among the multitude and far away from him. A little too abruptly—and noticeably _disappointing_ —for his liking, his new dancing partner happens to be Syrana, following her steps for a while although losing interest quite faster than anticipated, his attention focused elsewhere.

More precisely, glued to a violet mane swaying with the rhythm, dancing and laughing with the newly appointed member of her band, Thalrenus Rivertree. And the scene could have easily passed as two friends having a good time… if not for the young Sorcerer having _the audacity_ of lying his hands where he _shouldn’t_ and pulling her close in the next minute.

Oh, no. Mother Moon be _fucking damned_ if he’d allow another Hargo’then on the rising.

Illidan’s mouth curls into a fierce sneer, already pushing whoever gets in his way to Mylenne before Rivertree leans further closer to her and to, from what it _blatantly_ seems like, steal a kiss from her.

“I don’t think so.” It’s all Illidan growls as he grabs her by the arm and effectively snatches her away from those filthy hands. Mylenne doesn’t seem to mind, however, only yelping at the sudden change of partner yet returning to her careless dancing, a lavender arm sneaking its way across his shoulder in a natural manner.

Thalrenus merely snickers, quite amused for Illidan’s liking, acting almost as if he’s looking forward to getting a punch in that smug face of his. “Careful, Stormrage. Your jealousy is showing…” Gladly so, he knows when to put a stop to his bantering as Illidan glares furiously at him, sparks of purplish-blue flashing menacingly across his eyes.

Mylenne’s hand on Illidan’s chest somehow soothes his livid state, yet doesn’t precisely direct her incoming scold at him. “Stop teasing him, Ren. He just has a bit of a temper, that’s all…”

Eventually, the man complies and leaves them be. However, as a slower song begins playing and the two of them are left swaying idly to the music—dancing in each other’s arms until dawn as _they always do_ —Thalrenus’ last four words keep repeating over and over in Illidan’s mind.

Thalrenus is wrong, though. Mylenne just said so, and she knows him better, matter of factly—it’s not jealousy, just his bad temper. That’s all there is.

It _has_ to be.

* * *

Even without streetlights nearby, the night can’t be any clearer with a Full Moon and a starry sky looming over Suramar’s outskirts. Although it’s not like Illidan is able to really appreciate the beauty of the landscape displayed before him and his friends; his eyes glossy and sight quite blurry, the several amounts of Cider he had definitely going over his head this time.

But Mylenne and her _godlike_ splendor, oh, he can see that in every possible detail.

He can’t help the pang of envy that surges through him at the moonlight caressing her lavender skin so shamelessly, her loose silken shirt revealing a portion of her stomach as she lies over the cerulean grass without any care in the world. Her chest heaves as she rehearses her vocals and Illidan’s gaze is glued to her, transfixed, not even _daring_ to take his eyes away from her.

“ _Kiss while your lips are still well, while he’s still silent. Rest, while bosom is still untouched, unveiled…_ ” Mylenne sings softly—near shyly if he didn’t know her as much as he does—eyes closed and lyrics rolling through her tongue. “ _Hold another hand while the hand’s still without a tool. Drown into eyes while they’re still blind. Love while the night still hides the withering dawn…”_

Resting his weight on his elbows, Illidan opts for just savoring the moment, basking in the feeling of her voice warming him from the inside out—something that not even the summer breeze brushing against him can really accomplish as much. Not all of them seem to agree with the sentiment, however, as Thalrenus clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“I thought we’ve agreed Lothrius will sing that one,” The man remarks and Mylenne cracks one eye open in his direction. “Besides, we’re _a year away_ from performing it.”

While his comment makes Illidan’s blood boil with sheer annoyance—how _dare_ he ruin the melody or even _question_ the very main singer of their band, who does he _think_ he is—Lothrius just shrugs it off. “For what is worth, I’m not apologizing for writing such a good song that makes Mylie practice it beforehand,” An amused smirk shows on Mylenne’s face, gladly taking a Nightwine bottle off Lothrius’ hands. “Don’t listen to Ren, dear, you’re doing great as always!”

Mylenne just smiles and shrugs, as soft and easygoing as Illidan knows her to be when she’s somewhat tipsy. To a certain extent, how he’d rather always wants her to be; careless of opinions and appearances, enjoying the simple pleasures of life such as having a good, meaningless time with friends. Although that pondering doesn’t exactly convey Illidan’s delight towards her state of mind, actually feeling more _privileged_ to witness and share her happy moments rather than anything else.

But what he knows for certain is that there’s _nothing_ he wouldn’t give just to make her crack that soft smile every night of her existence.

A giggle from her part takes him out of his reverie. “You’re staring at me like that. _Again,_ ” Mylenne takes a gulp of her bottle, but her eyes never leave his. His mouth imitates the movement of her lilac lips, giving her a soft smile of his own.

“I guess I am, yeah…” His words slur faintly, not finding the energy to make a real conversation.

She tilts her head, arching a brow in curiosity. “Should I assume I have something on my face, then?”

His stare doesn’t falter, taking all of her in without remorse, selfishly even. From the moonlight haloing her violet mane, to the tempting biting of her lower lip, to the appealing sight of her collarbones showing under her loose shirt, the alluring cleavage the fabric leaves in its way, and down to the endearing curl of her toes with the cerulean grass tickling her feet.

“Nope. You’re just as gorgeous as ever,” Illidan replies, fully aware it’s impossible to explain her breathtaking beauty with mere words only. At moments like these, though, he can’t really wrap his head about how nobody but him seems to notice that outstanding fact in her—even if that’s precisely what he takes some pride for, feeling somewhat special about being capable enough to perceive it.

A blush creeps over Mylenne’s cheeks and Syrana chokes on her drink, leaving Illidan to mull over having said something wrong. Lothrius, on the other part, fakes a coughing. “ _Getagripbuddy—_ ahem!”

Mylenne gives Lothrius a dubious look but Illidan waves him off before giving the rest a chance to ponder about it. “It’s not a secret either way. I could stare at you for hours and never get bored of it,” Illidan says nonchalantly, crossing his feet and relaxing furthermore over the grass. “What can I say, I just like the view…”

Syrana’s goodhearted cackle startles him slightly, however. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! But he’s just hilarious when he’s drunk!” She apologizes in advance, wiping some tears of laughter off her face.

Apparently so, he _did_ say something wrong, for in the next minute Lothrius can’t help with making quite the mocking show of singing a serenade to Syrana. “ _Kiiiiiss while your lips are still well, while he’s still siiiiilent. Rest, while bosom is still untouched, unveeeeeiled…”_  He brings Syrana’s hand to his heart in an exaggerated manner, goading her to join in his presuming teasing—which she does without hesitation, much to Illidan’s irritation.

“I’m not getting—“ He tries to object, sadly to no avail.

“ _Loooove while the night still hides the withering daaaaaawn!_ ” Syrana and Lothrius chant in unison, arms linked and swaying side to side, too much into their banter to acknowledge him.

Mylenne brings a fist to her mouth in attempts to keep herself from bursting into laughter, yet can’t seem to help giving Illidan a skeptical glance. It’s not of much help, for the matter.

“Did I say something funny?” He opts to ask Mylenne instead, although it doesn’t take long for him to notice everyone’s eyes on him, staring as if expecting something. “Come on, what is it?” Illidan tries again with the entire group, hoping any of them would enlighten him on how he’s suddenly become the laughingstock of the evening. “I mean it, I’m actually— _no.”_

_It can’t be. No, no, no, no…_

It’s the very instant he meets Syrana’s all-knowing eyes when realization hits him in full strength, blood draining out of his body in the course of a second, eyes wide. Terror shoots up his spine—was _that_ what Syrana’s been meaning to point on for _years_ , was Thalrenus _really_ teasing him months back, did Lothrius know before _himself_?

But the unexpected revelation that truly makes him go pale from head to toe is that, of all people, _Silgryn fucking Stareye_ knew it all along. Of course he did, and the fact of it explaining absolutely everything the elder Stareye has ever done to keep Illidan at his niece’s reach is enough for Illidan’s stomach to twist, feeling sick all of a sudden.

“Lid? Illidan, what’s wrong?” He finds a pair of big and bright silver eyes staring at him with sheer concern, yet when mere moments ago he could say for certain that Mylenne’s voice has been the sweet balm that always soothed his temper, Illidan can’t help with taking it as something _terrifying_ as of then. “Are you okay? You-you’re scaring me…”

He jumps away before Mylenne touches him, getting on his feet quite too fast for his admittedly drunken state—although sobering up just as fast. “Yes, _yes_ , I’m fine! I just, uh…” He stammers and swallows hard, mortified as ever, noticing the rest of his friends doing an awful job on keeping their amusement to themselves.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Unable to come up with any petty excuse, the next thing Illidan realizes are his feet leading him to Meredil, running away like the _fucking coward_ he is.

_How in Elune’s fucking sake could this happen?_

He knocks the wooden door once, twice, thrice; sure he’d lose his mind if he doesn’t get an answer. “Mal? Mal! You there?” After hearing a muffled ruffle behind the entrance, Illidan rests his weight on his knees as he waits, trying his best to ease his racing heart somehow.

The only _dorei_ in the world he can currently rely on meets him past the open door. “Brother? What brings you here this late?” Meeting his silver eyes and panting softly, apparently Malfurion is in no need of any words whatsoever. “Well, don’t stay there, come in! Tyrande and I were just about to have some tea,” He goads Illidan inside after giving him a worried once over.

The mention of Tyrande makes him hesitate somehow.  “I wouldn’t want to, you know… I can come back another time if I’m—“

His ramble comes to a stop after another pair of bright silver eyes acknowledges him behind Malfurion’s shoulder. “Not with that face, you’re not.” Tyrande says somewhat scornfully, beckoning him in with an inviting hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, you reek of Cider. Are you drunk? Feeling ill?”

Illidan shakes his head and makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Just have a seat, brother. I’m pouring you a cup,” His twin insists, pointing inside his small living room.

Collapsing in the closest chair—without any strength for proper manners—Illidan attempts for untying his ponytail, feeling a headache coming while his thoughts begin racing once again. Tyrande offers to help and he leaves her be without much of a fight, appreciating the feeling of her long fingers massaging his scalp, yet can’t help but selfishly wish for them to belong to another woman entirely.

The picture of her lavender face invades every corner of Illidan’s mind, almost hauntingly, recalling every single past conversation as best as he can. How did that happen? Since _when_? How did he possibly allow screwing everything up so badly? What did Mylenne _fucking_ Stareye _do_ to him?

Could it really be what Silgryn meant with his stupid tales all along? It’s not fair or even _healthy_ for him to fall in—

With somewhat shaking hands, he procures a pipe he’d—appropriately so, given the timing—borrowed from Silgryn’s abandoned room at the bar. “You mind?” He glances at his brother, lighting it up with a snap of his glowing fingers after being allowed, taking a long, slow drag in the best attempts to soothe his nerves.   

Tendrils of smoke swirl around the silent living room and some minutes later, Malfurion joins him and Tyrande with steaming cups of tea, taking a seat in front of him. Tyrande opts for staying close, bringing a comforting hand to Illidan’s knee. “Alright, we’re all ears. Is something wrong?” She wonders, voice soft.

What is _not_ wrong at this point?

“Yes. Um, no, _no_!” Illidan tries taking it back, only to choke on his own hot smoke, coughing awkwardly. “Well, maybe? I don’t… know?”

Malfurion frowns in deep concern. “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

He sends a glare his brother’s way, ready to protest and bark something back, although regretting it after a second thought. “… Maybe so,” Illidan grumbles, eyes dropping to the steaming mug in his hands, reconsidering his words. However, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t find the will or the proper way to convey everything that crosses his mind. “Ugh, this is just _ridiculous_ ,” He drops his mug and rubs his face harshly, the arrived headache making everything worse.

“You think so? Because you look rather… terrible,” Tyrande clearly takes mind of her words, yet never leaves his side, taking his free hand in both of hers. “Illidan, you know you can tell us _anything_ , right? We’re willing to listen, if you’d like to talk about it,”

After giving his friend a dubious look, he’s willing to admit he’s to blame for resorting to visit his brother in the first place—the least he could do as of then is _try_ talking it out. “Well, I… may have something,” It becomes a very hard thing to do so, though, taking a sip of his tea in attempts to clear his mind somehow. “I think I… I _believe_ … um, I’ve come with a sudden realization I… ugh!” But Illidan gives up faster than he’d have liked, holding his head between his hands.

Could it possibly be, dare he finally say it, _love_? It’s the most plausible explanation, though, whether he’s okay with it or not. It hurts and shames him to believe so, but it _has_ to be—and not even his past feelings for the woman right before him are comparable in the slightest to the surging torrent of emotions he gets when Mylenne crosses his mind.

He never felt something like that in his entire life, but is it truly supposed to trouble him this deeply? And regardless of it all, how could he have the _audacity_ of falling for the most wrong person in the Empire he could have possibly fallen for? No matter if they had their sorts of back and forth and also even kissed— _twice—_ it’s plainly impossible for him to really do something about it.

In fact, whatever opportunity he once could have had, it’s certainly long gone by then. She’s _engaged,_ and to her _childhood friend_ , of all people. There’s absolutely no way he can stand a chance against that. Nope, not a single one.

… He’s doomed.

“Just spill it out, brother. I’m sure we’ll get it,” Malfurion gives him a reassuring nod.

To some extent, his twin is right and he should, though. And if he truly is doomed, then what else does he have to lose?

Taking a peeking glance at the pair, Illidan takes a long breath, trying not to think of the possible avalanche of consequences that voicing out his concerns would give him.

“I’ve… fallen for Mylenne Stareye.”

Saying it in the open doesn’t help as much as he thought so, making him cringe at how _horrible_ and _ominous_ those five words just sounded. His heart tries hammering its way out of his chest, expectant, as lost and vulnerable as he’d ever felt in his life—not even _centuries_ of self-control, magic training and meditation preparing him for such an unexpected thing.

But ever so slowly, Tyrande’s face fully brightens with the widest of grins, irradiating joy. Malfurion, however, blinks several times in sheer confusion, looking back and forth at the two of them.

“Oh? But… that’s nothing new. We knew that already,” His brother tilts his head, apparently expecting something else.

A tense silence falls over the trio. “What.”

In an awkward manner—and most likely due to Illidan glaring at him heatedly—Malfurion scratches his green mane. “Well, yeah. In fact, I assumed you two were a thing by now…”

“ _WHAT.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mylenne and Lothrius' song: [Kiss while your lips are still red, by Nightwish](https://youtu.be/Kmiw4FYTg2U).


End file.
